Don't Ever Change
by omgringo
Summary: An accident leaves John and the rest of The Beatles scarred. With the rhythm guitarist's memory and emotions tattered and in ruins, can Paul get him back to his usual self again? Or will The Beatles shatter apart like John's mind? Hurt/comfort. Eventual McLennon. Strong language throughout.
1. Don't Ever Change

Paul McCartney wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, as he put the bass back on the stand, and turned. An orchestra of screaming girls surged through the seats in the concert hall. They're screams shook the whole room it seemed. The bassist looked over to George and John next to him, and when they all took a bow, more screams erupted. Paul gave a smile and put his lips to the microphone; every girl visibly swooned.

"Goodnight, thank you for having us-"

"You should be thankin' us you know!" John gave a shout and a shrill laugh. The audience shrieked with delight at his outburst.

The Beatles gave once last bow and left the stage.

Paul, as he grabbed a towel to dry himself off a little, wondered why John teased the audience like that. Even if the girls liked John's cheeky demeanour and witty remarks, Paul didn't want to risk getting any bad reviews if the rhythm guitarist took it too far; it could ruin their reputation.

The four musicians made their way out of the back, into a rather cold, rather dark alley, where the puddles sparkled from the street lights and their breaths took wings in the form of smoke.

"Where's the car?" Paul heard Ringo ask quietly.

"Must be late," George answered. He struck a match and lit everyone a cigarette while they pondered.

Paul gave sigh. "We'll just have to wait inside till it comes then," and made his way to the back door once again.

"Can't we just wait out 'ere?" John moaned.

"Nah, mate, say if some fans find us; we'll be ripped to shreds!" Said the bassist, as he sucked on the cigarette tiredly.

"Well I don't wanna go back in there," John argued back. He shoved a hand in his coat pocket defiantly.

Paul was far too weary to quarrel now. He shrugged, "Suit yourself," and began to walk back to the door, Ringo and George behind him.

"What's the worst that could happen, McCartney!" He laughed and stepped backwards into the darkness, just as the car came speeding down the alley and hit him.

When he heard the screech of tires and the thud of a body hitting the floor, Paul felt his heart stop. He turned and screamed.

"John!"

It was silent for a moment after that. No one knew what had just happened, no one could comprehend. But only for that one second.

The bassist sprinted over to John's limp form sprawled out on the cold ground like a discarded rag doll.

"Oh my God, Johnny. Fuck! What the fuck!" Paul was deaf to his own cries. Ringo had to pull him back when he smothered the rhythm guitarist, as George rushed for a phone to call an ambulance. The driver stood at the door of the car in shock.

"It's your fault, you fucking bastard! You fucking cunt! You hit him!" Paul screamed.

He threw the drummer off him angrily and rolled John onto his back. Not a scratch on him, but he still wouldn't wake up.

"Come on, Johnny, don't fucking die on me. Come on, Lennon!"

Paul took John's face in his hands. He put an ear to the auburn-haired man's chest and listened for a heart beat.

Thump-Thump-Thump.

It was faint, but it was there.

"Oh my God," Paul was weeping now. His body, racked with shakes and sobs, jittered erratically. He felt two pairs of hands restrain him and pull him back. He throttled wild like an animal.

"No! John!"

"Let us get him into the ambulance, son. He's in good hands now." A deep voice said.

Paul watched them lift John into the ambulance quickly.

"It's all my fault," he sobbed, "it's all my fault."

**(Next chapter already written and ready to post. Thank you for reading and please leave a review telling me what you thought! Sorry if this first chapter was brief- I thought it would be a good place to end it. Future updates will be longer!)**


	2. Wake Up

(Two days later)

The gentle pat of rain tapping against the window lulled Paul into a state of calm; a state he hadn't had the luck of being in for a while. He used a gentle hand to nestle John's fingers. It was something he would never do normally, after all he didn't want to come across as looking queer and get himself arrested or thrown in a ward here himself, but at this moment in time it felt like the right thing to do. John's milky-white chest rose and fell deeply under the light sheets, his eyes sealed shut and his body decorated with tubes and wires.

Paul would give anything to see those dark eyes open again.

"Wake up will you, John. Please. You've had a long enough lie in." He whispered.

The bassist bowed his head. He was tired.

"Any change?" Said George, sitting back down on a chair across from Paul. Ringo stood at the end of the bed and looked at John sadly.

"No," Paul sighed, "the doctors don't know when he'll wake up either."

There were no words any of them could share. It was a choking atmosphere of earnest, and it was the drummer's thick voice, thick and heavy with emotion, that spoke first.

"Always like John, eh, getting 'imself into trouble,"

Paul looked at Ringo and forced a smile, more of a grimace than a smile really, stood and patted him on the shoulder in a brotherly way then made his way to the door.

"I'm gonna get a coffee," he mumbled.

The white halls squeaked as he walked out of the door and down the corridor and to the cafeteria, passing people in their rooms; crying women, screaming babies, but almost no one recognised him. Or maybe they were too distraught to notice. Or maybe they just didn't care. Paul thought so.

He sat down at a table with his scalding drink, cupping his hands around the steaming mug. Wincing as he swallowed some down, he didn't notice a man sit across him.

"It's true then."

Paul looked at the blonde man and realised that what he said wasn't a question- it was a statement.

"'Scuse me?"

"The news about John Lennon; it's true he got knocked over, that he's here. I heard he's dying, no chance he'll live to play again."

The bassist felt anger rise in his stomach. His fingers curled tighter around the cup of coffee.

"What'll 'appen, then? You know, if 'e kicks the bucket- you gonna break up? I reckon he's easily replaceable, that Lennon. Shabby guitar player, I say-"

"How did you find out?"

"What?"

His voice was dangerously low. "How did you find out?"

"It's all over the papers, mate-"

Paul stood, suddenly, shoved his chair back and pointed a finger at the man. The cafeteria grew quiet at the outburst.

"Right well you can tell the papers I said this: John Lennon is fine and well, and we don't fucking appreciate tabloids spreadin' rumours about us that ain't bloody true!"

He looked around the room and felt the eyes burn holes through his skin. After another glance at the silent blonde man, he picked up a discarded newspaper quickly from the another table and hurried out of the hall, back down the sterilised corridors and into John's room. His face was flushed red in a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

"You're back quick," George said.

"What 'appened?" Asked Ringo, as he stroked John's still fingers gently.

Paul paced. "It's all over the fuckin' papers," he seethed. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he passed George the paper.

"What is?" The drummer inquired. George's dark eyes widened, then narrowed. He passed the newspaper over to Ringo, looking back up at Paul.

"How did it get out?" The guitarist asked.

"Someone else must've seen us. Maybe the driver spilled just to get a few quid. Now everyone's sayin' he's on 'is death bed. Fuckin' rats'll do anything to make money."

Ringo's blue eyes hurried over the paper so fast it was a blur. He threw it on the ground and clutched John's hand so tight his knuckles turned ivory.

"He's gonna be fine, lads. Don't worry. Johnny's a fighter." Ringo's voice was just above a whisper. A husky sob choked through him and he hurried out of his seat and into the hallway. George got up and followed him, calling his name. Paul stood alone.

"Just wake up, John." He said. A sigh. A tired sigh. "Please wake up."

Then, he walked away.

**(Thank you for the reviews on the previous chapter, they made me ever so happy! I've been busy with school so I couldn't upload and I apologise for this short chapter. Believe me they will be longer! A review would make my day. I'll try to update very soon.)**


	3. Awake

The one day Paul, George, and Ringo were late to the hospital was the day John woke up.

It seemed like a lifetime since they had seen his eyes open, even if they were confused and furious it was still a wonderful sight.

However, they didn't dare step near. John was in quite a state, it was almost frightening. Not until he spoke did Paul jump forward.

"Where the fuck am I?! Get off me!"

Paul grabbed the railing of the bed. A nurse tried to keep John still. "What's wrong?" His voice was panicked.

"Post coma agitation, it happens. John, I need you to calm down. You're in the hospital." Another nurse said.

"I can't get those chords right, if I can't get them right they'll go mad!" The rhythm guitarist, pinned back to the bed by two nurses, had a wild look in his dark eyes. A look that scared Paul half to death. A look of uncertainty; he didn't know where he was.

The bassist glanced behind him at his two other band mates, both of them wore the same expression as himself; terror.

He was still now, but panting heavily. "Are you one the doctors?" He said to Paul.

"It's me, John, it's Paul. We're in a band."

"Where have we been banned?"

The bassist squinted, as if to look deeper into the blank eyes staring back at him. "N-No, we're IN a band. The Beatles, John. Ringo and George are here, look." He moved and the two other men moved forward.

By this point the nurses had removed their arms from him and laid him back against the sheets again, but John was still restless. He looked up at Paul. "Who's this, Pete?" He asked.

"I'm Paul," the bassist reminded again, as he placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's Ringo," the drummer said, "Ringo Starr."

"Rhino,"

"Ringo. My name is Ringo, John, Richard. You call me Ringo." His blue eyes were furrowed in confusion, in sadness.

George stepped forward. "Hello, John," he said with a small smile. "Good to see you awake."

"Who's this, John? Paul asked encouragingly, giving him a small shake. "What's his name?"

"Rin... Ring?" He stuttered.

"No, nearly there; that's Ringo over there," Paul pointed over to Ringo and the drummer gave a small wave. He took John's shoulders in both hands and sat on the edge of the bed. "Who's this?" They looked over to George.

The Beatles waited expectantly. The rhythm guitarist blinked. "In the band," he said with a chalky voice. Paul grinned proudly.

"Yes he is! But what's his name, John?"

Those dark, empty eyes, foggy and dream-like, floated up to the dark-haired bassist next to him. He paused. Everyone in the room held their breath.

"Who are you again?" He asked.

Paul paced so much Ringo thought he would start to make holes in the floor.

"Paul, you're pacing's makin' me nervous," he said, only to have the bassist glare daggers at him with fiery eyes.

"And you aren't already?" Paul chewed on a nail, his shoulders tense, his movements erratic, "he doesn't even know our fucking names. He can't remember. What about if he never does?"

George intervened. "He will-"

"Oh? And how are you so sure, eh?" Paul spat. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"The doctors said the amnesia will only last a few days, Paul. He'll be back to normal in no time."

Paul frowned, engrossed in his shoes scuffing the polished floor. Trust George to always look on the bright side in the worst situation. He was so sweet it was sickly.

"The doctors didn't even know he was going to wake up, George. How can they be sure this'll just magically go away? We're fucked."

"Oh will you just listen to yourself, McCartney!" Ringo shouted.

Paul stopped pacing.

His blue eyes burned with a thousand embers. "It's always about 'us', ain't it? 'WE'RE fucked', eh Paul? But what about him? What about John?" His fists were clenched at his side's as he stood and squared up to the bassist. Though smaller, he could see Paul shrink under his gaze. "He's in there and he's alone and he's scared. He doesn't even remember half the stuff that happened in the past year. Imagine how terrifyin' it is to have a bunch of strangers tell you they know you. Imagine how scared he's feelin' right now, Paul. We're fucked? I think you better take a look around you and reconsider that statement."

Paul, wide-eyed, trembling with pent up anxiety and fear, watched Ringo shake his head and walk away. He heard the door to John's room open.

"Hey, John," Ringo said quietly.

"Hey, Rhino."

**(Another short chapter! I apologise if I leave any of you hanging. I have an extra long chapter for next time, which shouldn't be that long. Thank you for leaving a review and I'll see you next time!)**


	4. Of Sound Mind

"I don't bloody care what you think. I want him home now."

Paul, footsteps loud and angry, walked with clenched fists down the pristine, white corridor leading to the rhythm guitarist's room. Doctor Robert followed him on anxious heels.

"He only woke up a day ago and we haven't done any tests; there could be further complications we don't know about yet!" He said.

Paul stopped short in the corridor, the doctor almost crashed into the back of him. He turned angrily. "This whole fucking thing is complicated enough. John is better off being at home with his family, not stuck here with you white-coats. I'll take care of him fine."

"I don't quite think you know how serious John's condition is. The amnesia will be temporary but the brain trauma he has experienced is permanent. He's never going to be the same, you must realise that." Said Doctor Robert sternly. His grey eyes glinted with frustration but softened when the musician ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Look I know things are tough right now, Paul. I can release him tomorrow but you must phone me every day and tell me how he's doing. If he gets any worse, bring him back here. You're lucky you're talking to me; if it was any other doctor you wouldn't be getting him back this early."

"I know, I'm very grateful. Thank you, Doctor Robert. John appreciates this. We all do." Paul said quietly.

The physician nodded with a tight set of lips and walked away.

... ... ...

The ride back to their flat was uncomfortable.

Everything had been ever since John woke up, since he was knocked over by that blasted car.

John, in the front seat next to Paul driving, had fallen asleep quickly. The three Beatles were glad; they weren't quite ready to face the reality of their situation just yet. His head was resting on the window.

"What should we do?" Came Ringo's quiet voice from the backseat. Paul looked at his rear view mirror and saw the drummer's sad blue eyes staring back at his hazel ones.

"We get him in the flat, get him comfortable," said the bassist. His eyes flickered back to the road. They were nearing the house; Paul felt like throwing the car in reverse and driving ten more times around the block than rather walk back in there.

"Then what?"

Paul shouldn't have gotten mad. Thinking back on it now, he should have seen through Ringo's questions. He should have understood; John Lennon, creator of The Beatles, front man, the one who brought it all together, was their leader. He was the one who made the final decision. He was the one they all turned to when they were stuck.

And here he was, drool down his chin, mind at a loss. He didn't even know his own name only a few days ago. Who was going to guide them?

Paul shouldn't have gotten mad. But he did.

"I don't know, Ringo! I don't fucking know!" He shouted, angry and voice raw. John snapped awake. It was like a corpse zapped back to life by a bolt of lightning.

Silence.

"What happened?" Asked John.

No one answered.

... ... ...

John felt his hand tighten around Pete's-

Paul's. He was Paul. He kept forgetting-

And when they got to a door and inside he didn't let go until they were standing in the middle of a room. He didn't recognise it, but something went off in his head like a bell; he knew this place, he just couldn't comprehend it, however.

"Do you know where we are, John?" Paul asked him. He was so busy looking at his surroundings he almost didn't hear the question.

"We... we live here?"

"Yes!" The bassist grinned, though his heart sank at John's hesitation. Something told him that the rhythm guitarist didn't fully know where he was. "All four of us. We all share this place."

George sat down on a brown sofa pushed against the wall. "Why don't you sit down, John," he said, and John complied with guidance from Ringo. The drummer gently took his arm and sat him down.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" He asked.

John couldn't really recall whether he liked tea or not. "Um, no thank you."

"How 'bout you, George?"

"Yes, thanks Ringo,"

He walked into the kitchen area, where Paul was.

"You alright, Paul?" He asked. The bassist was bent over a note pad, scribbling away. "What are you doing?"

"I'm writing down John's reactions,"

Ringo blinked. "Why?"

Paul sighed. "If he can remember, I want to record how he reacts to things, you know? Like, if we went back to Liverpool and took him to the Cavern, if he'd remember it, how he would act, that sought of thing. Doctor Robert told me to tell him how John is getting on. I just have a bad feelin'."

"I think we all do right now, Paul." Said the drummer sadly. He gave the bassist a pat on the shoulder and busied himself making him and George tea. Paul closed the note pad and walked back into the living room, sitting himself beside John.

"So," the auburn-haired man said with a quiet voice, "we're in a band?"

George looked at Ringo walking back with the tea, Ringo looked at Paul, and Paul looked at George. No one knew how to go about telling him.

Paul only just realised, despite that man telling him about John never being able to play again, the band breaking up, and it being in the newspapers, he hadn't once thought about The Beatles since John's accident. It was like the fame had gone to the back of his skull. Friendship and worry had assumed roll of his thoughts. And it all came flooding back suddenly, like a burst dam, like a wave crashing onto a shore.

"Uh, yeah. We're in a band." He didn't know what to say. How do you explain the band you're in to the person who created it. "It was your idea."

John looked over to George and then back to Paul. "My idea?"

"You made the band, John. Do you remember?"

Everyone was hopeful. Everyone held their breaths.

"The... The Quarrymen..." John smiled, like a proud father. He looked at Ringo for approval. All the drummer did was look sad.

George shook his head quietly at Paul, deflation in his eyes. Paul rested a hand on John's knee, patted it like a child.

"Yeah, John. That's right." The bassist searched those dark, empty orbs for any scrap of remembrance, any hint of knowledge. He couldn't see; it was like looking into the old, dusty windows of an antiquities shop and finding nothing.

... ... ...

Paul pulled the sheets closer to his chest in an attempt to secure himself down to the bed so he wouldn't have to get up again.

Today, in a word, was tiring. Exhausting.

Oh, he was over the moon that John was awake. That he could walk and talk, that he hadn't a single scratch or bruise on his body. Paul was overjoyed.

John was there, the features, the voice, everything, except... he wasn't.

Paul didn't understand. It was like a complete different person had been put into his body but the brain and the heart and the personality had been ripped out; like John's inner-self had died in that accident but his body lived on. It scared Paul.

What if he never remembered?

What if he, George, and Ringo remained strangers to John forever?

Paul closed his eyes heavily. He felt the warming lull of sleep pull his body down closer to the mattress, like he was sinking into blackness and all his worries were crumbling away. He liked sleep; he could escape reality for a few hours.

"Paul! Paul, Paul, please! PAUL!"

A shrill voice, a shriek, cut through the peaceful blackness of slumber suddenly, like a knife slicing through a raven sky. The light out in the hall like a beacon, made him squint, as he hurried out of bed and pulled on his trousers quickly.

"_PAUL_!"

He almost stopped pulling at his jeans when he recognised the voice but raced out of the door and into the hallway.

Ringo and George's tired, worried heads each poked out of their rooms.

"John..." The bassist breathed, and he ran down the corridor into the rhythm guitarist's bedroom with George and Ringo behind him.

The room was dark; Paul didn't notice him sitting there on the bed with his head buried in his hands.

"John?" He approached cautiously, remembering when the auburn-haired man first woke up in the hospital and the wild look in his eyes. "What's the matter, John?"

Those eyes. Teary, brimming with emotion, Paul had only seen them like that a handful of times.

"Where have I been?" He uttered.

Everyone was quiet.

"I... I woke up and... What happened? I don't know what happened."

George looked at Ringo. "You were in an accident," the drummer said with a small voice. Paul was staring at John, kneeling at the edge of the bed. The bassist stood, sitting next to the man on the bed, and took John's shoulders in his hands like he had at the hospital.

"What?"

"You were knocked down, John, by a car. You were in a coma. And you woke up a few days ago, we took you home today. The doctors said you have some slight brain damage, and that the amnesia would only last a few days." Paul explained. "But it's cleared up now it looks like."

He blinked. "Am I still at the hospital?" And looked around at the three suddenly worried faces staring back at him.

"No... You're home, John." George said.

"Oh yeah..." John looked down at his feet, then back at Paul, "Let's ring George Martin and get down to the studio then!" He stood quickly, only to have Ringo, George, and Paul push him back down on the bed again.

"Woah, John, you just woke up from a coma a few days ago; we can't rush into things like that just yet."

The anger, like a flash of lightning, came fast and angry. "I'm not a bloody invalid!" He shouted. Ringo jumped back.

"John." Paul said, hazel eyes wide in confusion, "Calm down."

"Sorry, Paul."

And then he went quiet, slinking into himself like he was being consumed from the inside. His head was bowed.

"We'll calm Brian tomorrow," the bassist sighed, standing up and making his way to the door, "goodnight, John."

John turned his back.

... ... ...

**(I told you it was worth the wait; a longer chapter at last! I hope you enjoyed reading. Please tell me what you thought in a review, if you thought it was good, bad, mediocre. I'd love to hear from you! Next update will be soon. Thanks once again.)**


	5. Fleeting Memory

George sipped his tea earnestly. It was 10 o'clock in the morning, a blue sky outside, birds singing from the window. The three Beatles were sat at the kitchen table huddled over their drinks, eyes heavy and sad.

The guitarist looked up at the bassist with a frown. "John."

"Someone should go wake him," Paul sighed, and pushed his chair out but George stood.

"Nah, I'll get 'im," he said, walking out of the small kitchen and about to venture up the stairs when he heard Paul yell.

"Any problems, give us a shout, George."

That made him squirm; like John was a problem patient or a dangerous animal. He was a human fucking being, for Christ's sake.

As he padded up to the second floor, he listened out. Hearing nothing but his own footsteps, he neared John's closed door and knocked gingerly.

"John?"

No answer.

"John? You awake?" He called again. His voice wobbled, and he cursed.

He turned the handle and opened the door a crack, poking his head through. The curtains were open, the bed was empty, and John stood next to the window, looking at George.

"Hi, John," the guitarist greeted. He stepped through a few inches more. "How long have you been up?"

"I was just... just setting the table," John said. He pointed at the sheets.

George's brow furrowed. "Making the bed?"

"Yeah,"

"Well you haven't done a very good job," George smiled, "the pillows are supposed to go at the top," he grabbed the pillows and put them at the top of the bed near the head board. Then he looked back up at the other man. "And you've got your jumper on backwards."

"Have I?" He blinked, but stayed still.

"Yeah- oh never mind, let's just go and get some breakfast, yeah?"

"Okay,"

John didn't move.

The dark-haired man frowned. "Come on then, John,"

"Alright," John nodded.

George had to walk over to him. He had a fuzzy look in his eye. "Do I have to hold your hand? Come on."

"I wanna hold your... your..." John's eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

"Hand!"

"Hand..."

"Alright, glad we got that sorted. Now let's go!" George made himself smile but inside he was furious; if he ever saw that driver again he'd kill him for making John this bumbling mess.

Eventually, the two men made their way downstairs and into the kitchen.

"Morning, John," Paul said, "sleep well?"

The auburn-haired man paused for a moment before sitting across from the bassist. "Yeah. Did you?"

"Alright, I guess- John? You've got your jumper on backwards, love."

"Have I?"

"Yeah. What do you want for breakfast?"

John stood. "I'll make tea,"

Paul was about to interrupt when the rhythm guitarist made his way over to the counter but Ringo stopped him.

His blue eyes were slightly desperate, his voice a quiet whisper. "Let's see if he can do it himself, yeah?"

The bassist gave a hesitant nod.

"Milk... milk..." John muttered to himself, as he searched through the cupboards.

"In the fridge, John," George called out to him.

He grabbed the milk from the fridge, leaving the door open, and went back to the counter, where he grabbed a mug and poured it in. Then, he got a tea bag from the jar and dunked it in the cup and sat back down at the table.

Paul, George, and Ringo looked at John's sorry excuse for a cup of tea with worried eyes. In any other situation they would have laughed. But they didn't this time.

"What happened to the water, John?"

"The wha'?"

"You didn't add any water; that's just milk."

He looked down at his drink. "Oh,"

Everyone was quiet. Not even the birds were singing now.

... ... ...

Paul put the phone down on the cradle. "I just called Brian, he should be coming over soon." Then, he looked back over at John still sitting at the kitchen table. Ringo had made him a proper cup of tea but it had gone cold; John did nothing but stare.

Sighing, the bassist went over to the quiet man watching his mug intensely. He sat beside him. "Brian's coming over; we can talk about getting down to the studio soon. Would you like that?"

John's dark eyes were foggy, like a misty winters morning, and half-lidded.

"Do you wanna try play something on the guitar?"

Nothing.

"Come on, John! Talk to me, let me in." Paul's voice boarded on anger. His fists were clenched on the table.

"Okay," John mumbled. He got up from the chair and walked over to the sofa, then sat down and stared at Paul.

Paul's expression was eager. "I'll go and fetch the guitar then!"

He ran upstairs, past George, and into John's room. Quickly plucking the classical guitar from the stand in the corner, he rushed out and back down stairs again.

"What's going on, Paul?" George asked, puzzled.

"I'm gonna try John with the guitar," he breathed, and all but ripped the living room door open.

John looked up. "What are we doing?"

Paul's bravado was slightly shaken. He paused. "Playing... we're playing the guitar, John."

"Okay,"

With steady hands, he passed the guitar to the other man sat on the sofa and then Paul sat on the floor in front of him. John looked lost. "What do I do?" He ran his fingers along the strings gently. It was like an artefact to him; it looked like he was scared to touch it.

"Anything," Paul told him, "play anything, anything you want. Go one."

The auburn-haired man gingerly placed his fingers on the neck and gave a strum. He managed, after a couple bum notes, to hit an E minor chord and looked to Paul approvingly.

The bassist nodded. His smile had faltered.

"I... I can't do it, Paul." He said. He put the guitar down next to him in a huff.

"No, no, sure you can!" Paul panicked, lifting the guitar up to John with fear in his eyes. "Have another go will you?"

"I can't," he muttered.

Paul shook the instrument. His hands were clammy, his ears burning with frustration, his orbs were the size of plates. He heard the door go but he wasn't concentrating on things around him; he just wanted John to play.

"Paul!" Came a voice from the hallway.

"Not now, George!" The bassist felt anger throb in his stomach. He was trying to remain calm but it wasn't working. "Play something, John. Please?"

"No."

"Paul, it's-"

"Please, George!" Paul yelled. His heart was racing. The front door slammed. He turned back to John. "Have a go, Lennon, please! Just try again-"

John exploded.

"I won't have another bloody go because I can't fucking do it, Paul! I can't fucking do it! I can't make myself a fucking cup of tea and I can't even dress myself! Can't you see, Paul? I can't fucking do it anymore!"

Silence, like an ocean, flooded the room, the whole house it seemed.

Brian stood in the doorway.

His eyes were sad. Everyone's had been, lately.

"Hello, John,"

... ... ...

**(Hello, everyone! Sorry I haven't updated for a bit; I've been very tired lately. This chapter was very fun to write so it would make my day if you left me a review telling me what you thought of it. Thank you so much for reading and I will see you soon. Cheerio!)**


	6. Touch Me

John, confused at first, narrowed his eyes.

"Brian?"

"How are you, John? Feeling better?"

The rhythm guitarist turned his head in Paul's direction. He saw the bassist staring back at him. George was now also in the doorway near Brian, his dark mop of hair shadowing his face slightly. John felt the three pairs of eyes burn holes through his skin.

He swallowed, finding it difficult due to the lump in his throat. "What is this?"

"What?"

"Am I a bloody loon? You look at me like I'm mad! Am I something worth staring at? A sore sight for the eyes?"

Paul put a hand on his shoulder, as if to suppress the bubbling aggression in John's voice, but the auburn-haired man shook off his gesture angrily.

"Don't fucking touch me, McCartney," his eyes burnt like cigarettes. "You can keep your hands off me too, George. And you Brian. And Ringo, wherever the fuck he is."

The bassist looked hurt. "We just want to calm you down; you're gettin' worked up-"

"I'm gettin' worked up, am I?" John repeated. He gazed in awe. "I'm gettin' worked up! Ain't that a laugh! You were the one goin' blue in the face trying to get me to play that fucking guitar. I'm getting worked up, am I? Fuck you, Paul. You don't know what you're on about."

"Lads!" Brian cut in. He watched Paul's fists clench. "John, Paul was only trying to help. Tensions are high, I understand that, but fighting isn't going to solve anything so can we just stop with this squabble?"

They both looked to Brian like children caught stealing biscuits.

The manager sighed. "So, Paul said you wanted to get down to the studio,"

"Yeah," John nodded. Paul looked down at his shoes.

"Do you think you'll be able to play?"

John wanted to shout again. He wanted to scream until his throat bled because he knew he wouldn't be able to play that sodding guitar like he used to. He didn't even know how to string some decent chords together; it would be like learning it all over again from the very start. He wanted to yell he could do it but he knew he wouldn't be able to, and everyone would look at him with those sad, pitying eyes like they always did.

So, instead of yelling, he just stood there.

"John?"

His hands were trembling, he noticed. His throat ached from that bloody lump. He felt the sting of tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

"I can't do it," he whispered. It felt like a thousand bricks had been placed on his shoulders. He had to sit down.

His mind was corrupted; a jumbled jigsaw of memories with pieces broken and missing. Seeds of times passed would flash brief in his mind. The bright lights of the car running him down and the screech of tires hit him hard. He winced and when he opened his eyes he saw Paul's worried face hovering just a few inches away from his.

"You alright, John?"

John felt the bassist's warm breath dance along his face like a breeze.

He felt an urge to reach out a pull him close. Frowning, he leaned back into the couch and stared down at his shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry, Brian. I don't know what I'm doing. It's all... it's all mixed up in me head." He swallowed that dry lump, like sandpaper, down his throat sorely. He grimaced.

Concerned blue eyes locked with his own hazy brown. "It's alright, John. We're here for you and we understand. Take as long as you need; no one is rushing you into making records, right Paul?" The manager looked at the bassist, who nodded sourly in return. "I order rest and relaxation for everybody, and I mean it."

From where he was kneeling, Brian stood up. He desperately wanted to hug the Beatle. John was like his son, and watching him go through this trauma tore him and the other men apart.

"I'll phone and visit regularly. Take care of yourselves, boys." He said, patting Paul on the shoulder and George on the back as he made his way out of the living room and into the hallway.

John heard the door slam.

The shuffle of footsteps, the sad, little sighs of his fellow band mates. George went back upstairs. Paul walked into the living room once again, though this time he kept his distance.

"I'm not important." John's head was bowed. "I can't even play," Paul had never heard his voice so quiet, "I'm not important to anyone anymore."

"You're important to me, you piece of shit,"

The rhythm guitarist looked up at the bassist standing close to him. His dark eyes were watery, and, he noticed after a moment of silence, Paul's were too.

"You're important to me," he said again. "You're important to all of us. And don't you ever think otherwise."

Paul kneeled and placed a brotherly hand on John's leg. Surprised, he didn't expect John to wrap his arms around his waist and pull him closer. It was an uncomfortable hug, but one of the best Paul had ever had in his life.

"I need you a little closer than just a pat on the fucking knee, Paul." Came a muffled sob.

The dark-haired man nestled his fingers in the lighter-haired man's locks. His other arm rubbed circles on John's back until he heard the man silence. They stayed like that for a few more minutes before he saw the door open and Ringo stand nervous in the doorway.

"Is this a good time?" He whispered.

Paul nodded. "I think he fell asleep," he looked down at John and confirmed his suspicions, eyes closed and breathing deep and even; the rhythm guitarist was out cold.

"Need any help with him?"

"Help me get him on the sofa?"

"Sure,"

The drummer and the bassist lifted him gently and placed him on the couch against the wall, draping a blanket over his torso and placing a pillow behind his head.

"I'm not surprised he drifted off," Ringo spoke in a hushed voice, just above a murmur, "he looks exhausted. And so do you. Why don't you go get some sleep. I've got it under control down 'ere."

"Oh, I couldn't-"

"Go to bed, Paul."

McCartney hesitated. What if John woke up and he wasn't there, what if he started acting up like before? He looked at the sleeping man with earnest.

"Do I have to carry you too?" Said Ringo with a small smile.

"Alright," Paul relented, "but as soon as he wakes up you come and wake me up too, okay?"

"Just go get some sleep, you moody cow."

"I'm going, I'm going."

As Paul trudged up the stairs to his room he was thankful; at least Ringo could retain some humour in all of this tragedy. He was the only one who had kept smiling through it all. The bassist didn't know how he did it, he was struck with jealousy.

Opening the door to his bedroom, he flicked on the light and glanced in the mirror as he passed. Since John had come home- since that bloody car mowed him down- his appearance had certainly gone downhill too, along with his life.

Bags, a mop of matted hair, and a hollow face. He was more concerned getting John better than actually looking after himself too. Ringo was right; Paul looked exhausted. He heaved a sigh and clambered into bed. In a few minutes he was asleep.

... ... ...

**(Hello once again, readers. I hope this short chapter will suffice for now. It's Johnny's birthday today where I am and so I decided to update as a small gift to you all. It's not a car or a cake but it's still a gift. :) Anyway, enough about me, what did you think about this chapter? Leave me a review! Anything! Thank you for reading and I'll see you soon.) **


	7. The Blood On His Hands

Whatever it was, it was loud.

A crash; a shatter or splinter from something fine and fragile. It gave a shriek, an echo that shook the house like a quake. But in his comatose state of weariness Paul ignored it.

He pulled the sheets tighter around his body, closer to the open crook of his neck where the cold air got in, and burrowed deeper into the mattress. It was his safe haven, his mistress. He didn't feel like tending to John right now as horrible as it sounded. He was tired. Ringo said he had John covered, anyway. It wasn't his problem anymore.

Oh how he wished for the old times; John's obnoxious sense of humour and his bossy orders. And his kind spirit hidden underneath layers and layers of cynical hard shell and scales. And his love. Paul knew how much love John Lennon had to give. It was more than he had ever imaged anyone could ever hold.

But... It wasn't his problem was it?

What if something had happened. What if John had freaked out and attacked poor Ringo. Or escaped out onto the street to be chased by hordes of screaming fans and paparazzi. It frightened Paul to death to think of him all alone out there.

He waged a brief emotional war with himself debating whether to get out of bed but before he could decide the door flew open.

In walked John.

The blinding light from the hall cascaded the rhythm guitarist into shadow. The shuffling silhouette closed the gap between him and the bed.

Paul, sitting up, flicked the lamp on. "John, what's the matter? Where's Ringo?"

John clambered on the bed next to the bassist. His face was a sleepy mask smeared lightly with... with...

What was that? Paint?

Blood.

Paul took John's face gently in his hands. "What happened to your cheek? You're bleeding." His voice wavered when he remembered the car mowing the other man down. Thankfully there were no broken bones or any other injuries, but Paul couldn't help but think what would have happened if the car had been going just that bit faster.

"I did the washin' up," John said. He held up his right hand close to Paul's squinting eyes. His fingers were slick with crimson.

"How did this happen, John?" Asked Paul. He made his voice gentle but inside he was filled with anger; how had Ringo let this happen!?

As the bassist tended to his finger, the rhythm guitarist spoke quietly. "I was washin' up and I reached in the bowl and cut me hand open, see?"

Washing up? Bloody hell. He was going to murder the drummer.

"Yes I see, John. Well," said Paul with weary eyes, "let's go downstairs and clean you up, eh?"

"Okay,"

Paul took John's arm and they made their way to the living room. He sat the rhythm guitarist on the sofa and, as he went into the kitchen area, he noticed.

Ringo wasn't there.

"Ringo?" He called out, but there came no reply. He shrugged and ran some cold water on a cloth and got a bandage from the medicine cupboard, along with some disinfectant. He noticed a broken glass on the floor but left it.

As he kneeled before John again, he took his hand.

"This is going to sting a little bit,"

John winced when Paul rubbed in the antiseptic. He tried to pull his hand away but the bassist held on tight. In a sort of motherly huff, Paul looked at John in disappointment and dabbled the cloth on his wound; there was a lot more blood than he thought. He looked back down.

"What am I going to with you, Lennon," he said quietly.

"Fix me," John replied.

Surprised hazel eyes flickered up to sober brown.

"What?"

"Well I'm broken ain't I? My head's all jumbled up like a pack of cards. One minute I'm like a little kid and then I'm me again. I'm broken."

"You're not broken, John," Paul said with a sad voice, "you're just going through a hard time- we all are. Things'll get better soon."

"They can't get no worse,"

Both men turned their heads when they heard the door slam. Ringo entered. His eyes were dark like tinted glass, his body heavy.

"Where the fuck where you?" Paul's tone boarded on hysteria. He stood, squared up to the smaller man with a glare in his hazel orbs and a snarl on his lips, and towered over the drummer.

Ringo did nothing but look at John. He shuffled past Paul and into the kitchen area.

"Where do you think you're going? I asked you a question!" The bassist followed the older man.

Ringo's voice was a hushed whisper as he leaned against the counter top with his back facing the other man. "We got a phone call,"

"About?"

"About John."

Paul's tense shoulders loosened slightly. His frown deepened. "What about John?"

"It was Brian. I was only gone an hour; I thought he would be asleep still when I got back!"

"What. About. John." Paul repeated.

Ringo's eyes studied the floor. "The driver's been found innocent. We're not gettin' any compensation."

The bassist felt like a deflated balloon. "Really?"

"I mean, it's not like we need the money, Paul-"

"But that bastard should be put away! Look what he's done!"

"It was a dark alley, John went into his path-"

"So you're sayin' this is John's fault?"

"No! It's just... if he had never stepped out like that..."

Silence, like a cold frost, settled slowly among them. Richard noticed the glass on the floor. He grabbed a brush.

"How did this 'appen?" He mumbled.

"John decided to do the washing up; cut his hand; dropped some things. Why didn't you come wake me?"

Ringo kept his blue eyes low. "We need all the sleep we can get. I didn't think he'd wake up so quick."

By the time the drummer had cleaned up the mess on the floor, Paul had sat back down with John on the sofa. Their voices were low. Ringo put away the brush and approached.

Paul's eyes flicked over to him. John looked up. "How's your hand, John?" Richard asked, kneeling in front of the rhythm guitarist.

Lennon's soft, dark eyes were the opposite to Paul's hard, sober ones. He gave Ringo a confused smile. "My hand?"

The bassist and the drummer exchanged glances. "You cut your hand, remember?" Paul reminded him, "We cleaned it up just now. See the bandage?"

"Oh, yes. I remember. I was playing the guitar,"

"That was before you went to sleep. You woke up and cut your hand when you started washing up; you came upstairs and woke me, John." Said the bassist. He had to remain patient; yelling at the man wasn't going to fix anything.

The rhythm guitarist looked lost. His vacant eyes pooled deep and dark like rippling water. "I did?"

Paul and Ringo remained silent.

"What's wrong with me?" He mumbled, "am I losing me mind, Paulie?"

Paul took a breath but suddenly the pounding of footsteps raced down the stairs. Three heads turned to George panting in the doorway.

"Lads," he breathed, waving the small, portable radio clutched in his fingers, "listen."

White noise blared at first, slowly turning to speech. _"...John Lennon of The Beatles was spotted walking out the hospital yesterday with the three other members of the pop group. Despite reports that the guitarist was on his death bed, he seems to have been discharged with a brain injury. It is unclear if he will continue to play with the band in his condition. In other news..."_

Paul snatched the radio out of George's hand and turned it off sharply. He set it down with a slam.

"Bloody bastards," he grumbled just above a whisper. Ringo and George exchanged glances. "Can't they leave us alone for two fucking days without spreading rumours?"

"Well, Paul-"

The phone rang. Everyone was a bit shocked until John jumped to his feet and put it to his ear.

"'Ello?"

Ringo got up from the carpet and dusted himself off.

"Yes, we have been listening to the radio, Eppy; it was about us, I think, and something about a bed."

Paul went to reach for John's sleeve. The guitarist shifted on the balls of his feet like a child listening to his mother.

"I don't know if- oh here he is, Brian, I'll put him on." John passed the phone to the bassist and wandered back to the sofa.

"Hello, Brian," said Paul wearily. He scrubbed a hand down his face. "...we can't do that!" Ringo and George's heads shot up at Paul's sudden outburst. "We shouldn't have to explain ourselves to them." His face, George noticed, was twisted in anger. "Absolutely not, no way, you're out of your- ...ask John? You'll have to ask him yourself, Eppy, and he's a tough one to convince... Okay, okay, I'll put him back on."

He handed the phone to the rhythm guitarist, who was now leaning over his shoulder.

"Hi again, Bri," he greeted. There was a pause. "A press conference? ...about me? About the... about the crash?" John's eyes suddenly darkened. "W-Well I don't know, Eppy... Are you sure?"

The three Beatles watched quietly. Paul's face was scrunched up in frustration.

"Well I would like to start performin' soon so maybe this'll help us... okay... we'll be ready. Ta, Brian, see you tomorrow." He put down the phone on the cradle.

"Well?" George asked quietly.

"He's comin' tomorrow at 12 to pick us up for a conference," suddenly the rhythm guitarist wasn't so cheery.

"Are you sure you're alright to do this, John? It's rushin' into things awfully fast..." said Ringo, nervously rubbing his fingers. His blue eyes were deep with worry.

"I'll be fine," the auburn-haired man smiled.

Paul noticed the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"What's the worst that could happen?" John said, and quickly disappeared back up the stairs.

* * *

><p><strong>(Hello! It's me again here with another update. So, do you John is being too hasty? Do you think something bad is going to happen? Only time will tell. Leave me a review telling me what you thought as they make me very happy. :) Thank you for reading and I'll see you next time!)<strong>


	8. It'll All End In Tears

John awoke with a start when Paul and George charged into his bedroom at 10 o'clock. When the chatter of the two men stopped, the rhythm guitarist's eyes closed again. The quilt keeping him warm was ripped from his bed.

"Wakey, wakey, Johnny boy," George murmured. A crescendo of bright light burnt his eyes from the morning sun filtering through his window. Paul drew the curtains back almost dramatically and, with a sigh, went over to John's wardrobe and started filing through it. He picked out a black suit similar to what he was wearing himself.

"Time to get dressed," the bassist instructed. He went to lay the clothes out on the bed when the older man growled.

"What are you doing?" He was on the edge of the mattress in his boxers and white string vest. His hair was a mess, he had dark, heavy bags hanging under his narrow eyes, and his lips were drawn back into a snarl.

"You need to get ready, John; Brian is coming over in 2 hours to pick us up."

"Oh," he said, and rubbed his eyes with a slightly trembling hand, "yeah. For the concert."

"Conference, John,"

"That's what I meant, George,"

As John stood, Paul set a clean pair of underwear on the bed and a pair of socks beside them. The rhythm guitarist noticed something.

"Is this in order, Paul?" He asked. His voice held a slight edge of disbelief.

Paul nodded his head. His doe eyes were serious. "Just so you put it on easier," he said.

John, mouth agape in silent anger, glanced at George standing near the door. The young Beatle looked the same as Paul. Had they discussed this? Had this all been planned?

Finally, he found his voice, "Well you ain't watching me get dressed, you can fucking forget about that."

"Alright, but if you need help don't be afraid to shout," Paul said, and he and George left the room quietly. John grumbled.

He looked down at the bed, studying the garments. With a small sigh, the rhythm guitarist began to undress and quickly slipped on the fresh pair of boxers. Then, he put on his trousers and pulled on his belt. His fingers fumbled with the loops and holes. He threw it down angrily on the floor after a few failed attempts to secure it to his waist.

"Bugger," he told himself, "I don't need the bloody thing anyway."

His eyes wondered over to the crisp shirt on the sheets. He picked up the shirt and he slipped it over his arms and his shaking fingers focused on the buttons.

Fuck. He swallowed. What pride did he even have left anyway?

"Paul?" He called with a small voice, so small he struggled to hear it himself. Paul's dark head of hair poked through the now open crack attentively.

"You alright, John?"

"I... I can't do me buttons,"

"What was that? You're mumblin',"

"Me fuckin' buttons, Paul! Help me with 'em, will ye'?."

Paul nodded his head but kept his eyes low, trained on John's smooth chest. His palms brushed against the skin. Their eyes briefly met then both flickered away.

After a moment, the bassist stepped back. "Why's your belt on the floor?" He asked. He picked it up.

"I couldn't do it," John replied gruffly, "the blasted thing wouldn't do up."

It came as a shock to the older man when Paul gripped the waistband of his trousers and started snaking the leather belt through the loops. John could only look at his face, the way the morning light glimmered in his eyes and danced on his soft button-nose. His hair was a dark sheen, fluffy and soft; John took a quiet whiff and hummed.

"What's the matter?" Paul suddenly asked, hazel eyes doe and deer-like as if caught in the headlights.

John swallowed and quickly thought of a lie. "I was just thinkin' about 'avin some brekkie; I'm famished." Paul bought it, nodding.

"Well, we're all done here so we'll go down and get some."

After John tied up his shoes and shrugged on his suit jacket, he and Paul descended down the stairs into the kitchen area. George and Ringo glanced at the rhythm guitarist.

"Mornin', John," the drummer greeted cheerily. He buttered a slice of toast and slid it on a plate towards the other man.

John, who in all honesty didn't feel very hungry, picked up the breakfast and nibbled. Paul nodded.

"You ready for today, lads?" Asked George, and though he addressed the whole group it was clear he was talking straight at John. Ringo and Paul muttered a few answers. John nodded absently and chewed in silence.

Paul's butter knife clattered on his plate and he made a small noise in his throat, something close to worry. "You know we can always cancel, John. We don't have to do this."

"I'm fine, Paulie," said the rhythm guitarist said rather calmly, "I'll be okay; nothin' I can't handle. Only a few cameras and microphones."

He had a smile that looked foreign to the bassist. Paul could tell- he was certain the others saw it too- that John wasn't prepared for the chaos of conferences, he wasn't ready for the hungry hoards that were the press, the fans eagerly awaiting behind fences with signs and photographs, screaming at the top of their lungs about how much they loved him. They were all anxious, none of them were ready, that's why he could see so easily through that smile, yet the bassist said nothing more.

Two tense and quiet hours had come and gone, passed like a chilly breeze. The Beatles noticed a black car waiting for them outside and heard a knock on the door. Ringo opened it to reveal a nervous-looking Brian with the wind nipping at his short, chocolate curls.

"Hello, Ringo," he greeted, steeping past the drummer, "are the other boys ready?"

"We've been ready since 10 o'clock, Eppy," George said. His head poked into the hallway from the living room. The manager gave an earnest smile and ushered Ringo to get his coat on.

"Will you tell John and Paul we're leaving,"

George's head disappeared for a moment, three Beatles stepped into the hallway and put on their coats. Ringo noticed John was struggling with his.

His touch was gentle, yet it made the rhythm guitarist jolt in surprise. "You alright, Lennon?" He asked, blue eyes staring up at two brown ones in concern.

"Yes, lad, now let's go."

As the five men stepped outside, the car doors opened for their entrance, and suddenly John stopped in his tracks.

Wheels screeched and screamed in his ears, burrowing into his skull. He could hear the wobbly voice of someone shrieking his name. He could feel a cloud of cotton wool wrap around his mind, his body fall down, thousands of miles into a dark abyss. Cold fingers curled around cobbles, a sobbing pillow crashed into him and wept in his ear.

"_John!_

_"Oh my God, Johnny. Fuck! What the fuck!_

_"Come on, Johnny, come on Lennon,_

_"John... John..._ **John**!"

A pat on the shoulder woke him from his walking nightmare. Paul's face floated just a few inches from his.

"What's the hold up, Lennon," the bassist said a little gruffly, though his hazel eyes were soft and understanding, "we're gonna be late."

With a meek shake of his auburn hair, the rhythm guitarist accompanied the younger man to the car. He watched Ringo's face sank back into the shadows when they climbed in. Brian's scrutinising gaze flickered uncomfortably back and fourth between John and the driver, until he motioned for them to start the journey.

The car was rather small, with Paul having to sit haphazardly half on John's legs and with half of his backside on the seat. He shifted erratically a few times before settling his view on the window.

"You comfortable yet, princess?" Despite the heat in his cheeks, John cracked a small smile.

Paul huffed animatedly, "very much so," then tossed back an amused smirk. It made the sensation creeping up John's neck flare a little more. "You alright?"

John's panic alarm sounded. "Fine," he lied "how are you? Ready for the press?" He gave the spotlight to Paulie; he always did when he didn't desire to draw any attention to himself.

And then Paul began nattering away, to which John tuned out to quickly like the younger man was a radio broadcast he didn't want to hear. His eyes shortly found his shoes.

_Am I ready for this?_

It seemed so long since he had even heard a frenzied scream from a fan, since he had seen a camera pointed straight at him. But it had only been a few days- a week maybe- and he had already dived back into the madness of it all. Anyone would be thankful just for a day without them, but not John; he craved the hysteria.

Soon, the car came to a halt. He looked up and his eyes met with cameras aimed like guns straight towards him. He pulled Paul's across his face so as to shield himself. His eyes screwed shut.

_Come on, Johnny, nothing you can't handle. Just a few cameras and microphones._

The door opened. He could tell because of the sudden cold wind on his legs and because Paul had jumped off of his lap. He felt a few pairs of arms pull him forward, fingers curl around his hands and limbs. He almost hit back. Almost. Until he realised once again where he was.

Two dark eyes peeled open grudgingly. As his boots hit the tarmac, he shuffled quickly in line behind the bassist. The dark-haired man was waving in a rather cheery way. It made John almost groan.

"John, over here!"

"Give us a smile, Lennon!"

Paul's angry face flashed in his mind suddenly, and John found himself moving forward to one of the cameras. The words slipped out before he even processed them.

"You're nothin' but fucking rats, you are!" He yelled and yelled, grabbed onto a collar, snarled into the wide-eyed face of a reporter like he was rabid dog going in for the kill. The flash of a bulb stunned him and he swung but his fist sailed through thin air, then he was caught.

A hand locked onto his shoulder like a vice. The rhythm guitarist was spun back to Ringo, with his mouth agape and his blue gaze twisted in worry. He mumbled a few words- maybe he shouted them, John couldn't tell from the loud ruckus of the paparazzi behind him- and ushered him quickly through a door and into darkness.

"What the fuck was that, John!?" Paul asked. Brian did nothing but screw up the hat in his hands and stare at the ground. Ringo still had his hand on John's shoulder in an almost protective way. George remained silent next to their manager.

"This was a bad idea," admitted Brian solemnly.

"You nearly punched a bloke out there," the bassist uttered, "and everybody saw it; they got your bloody picture!"

John was still squinting from the flash. "I don't know what came over me," he looked up at all of them with wide eyes. "I fucked up. I'm sorry, Eppy." His voice wobbled.

Then, came the tears. He pushed the oncoming swarms of fingers and hands away as he sobbed. He wanted to be alone. He didn't want to go out and be bombarded with questions, he didn't want to see the judging eyes. He wanted to curl up into a ball and make it all go away. A pair of arms wrapped themselves around his neck and pushed his head into a warm shoulder. John tried to get away but through all the tears his bravado had diminished completely and his strength had sapped. He wept into that shoulder like a son would to his mother.

"Shh," the voice almost cooed, "it's alright, John. We're here. You don't have to do this alone."

He gave a ragged breath, let his body sink into a sorrowful heap against the warmth of the other. The rhythm guitarist had lead arms at his waist and heavy eyes. He wanted to go back to sleep in Paul's arms like he had the other day. He wanted to wrap up in Paul and stay like it forever. He felt safe. But then Paul pulled away.

"Do you still want to go through with this?"

John almost shook his head no. He couldn't face going out there; he couldn't even control himself- he was a time bomb- but he didn't want to be cowardly. Lennon's never gave up. His Mimi hadn't, Uncle Jack hadn't, and he wasn't going to either.

"Yeah," his voice was quiet but fiery and determined. His watery eyes hardened like cinder blocks. He was going to get through this. He could cry later.

George cast a worried glance at Brian but nodded. The Beatles each took a sturdy breath before walking out behind the curtain and into the conference room. Instantaneously, chatter erupted from the reporters like an explosion. John felt another wave of panic wash over him.

The flash of camera bulbs blinded them as they sat at a desk covered in a sapphire cloth. Each of them had a small glass of water. With a wave of Brian's hand, the room silenced.

His enunciated words were sharp. "This conference was called for your questions about the recent events involving Mr Lennon's accident. You may calmly ask your queries one at a time."

The first hand shot up like a bullet. "Was it true you tried to attack a photographer outside just a few moments-"

"May I remind you all, _gentlemen_," Brian called, interrupting the man, "that this conference is about the accident and nothing else."

A few more mutters circled around the hall. John felt all eyes on him.

"Allegedly, you stepped out in front of the oncoming car with full intentions of it hitting you," said a heavy-set man in a brown hat. His wiry hair stuck out wildly. "Was this all part of an elaborate suicide attempt?"

John blinked. Another flash had his mind reeling. "Eh... no, no, it was an accident. I didn't... I can't really..." He drifted off. Paul's worried gaze was turned in his direction. He watched the rhythm guitarist take a hurried swig from the glass and set it back down a bit too forcefully.

"Mr Lennon, is it true that The Beatles are breaking up?"

Paul interjected. "Now what made you have that idea?"

"Due to John's brain injury," said a reporter, "won't it slow you boys' down from making records?"

"We'll find a way around it; John is very capable and he'll be on the mend soon, won't you John?"

The words blended together, came out a messy combination of tongue and gibberish. John squinted.

"Wha'?"

Paul frowned.

"Mr Lennon!" Came another voice. John's head spun. "I've heard it from a source that you're currently taking anti-depressants to combat the symptoms of your brain damage. Will your affliction stop your music career?"

"Hang on!" Ringo called, brows furrowed in confusion, "what affliction? 'E's not on any medication-"

"When did you start experiencing your delusions, Mr Lennon?"

"Is this all a hoax?"

"Are The Beatles dead?"

John couldn't take it.

He stood, pushed out his chair from behind him until it went crashing off the stage and huffed like a wild animal. The orchestra of camera flashes blazed like a burning sun until he couldn't see, and he went darting off the stage himself. Through the narrow space left by the swarming reporters, the rhythm guitarist charged though the double doors and out into the corridor.

"John!" Paul cried, getting up himself, "come back! _Johnny_!"

He ran. Tears streaming down his face, a wince on his lips and he shuddered along on his long legs, swerving round corridors until he found the one place he knew he could hide for a little while. He shut the door behind him and turned the lock. Then, he slid down the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest as he wept.

* * *

><p><strong>(Hello there, long time no update. Well, it's only been a little while so I made sure this was a bit longer than the others. Thank you very much for reading and please be sure leave a review telling me what you thought! Poor Johnny, I am cruel to him aren't I? Until next time!)<strong>


	9. Happy Pills

"We have to find him,"

Paul had legs like rubber, a quivering set of fingers wrapped around the edge of the blue tablecloth. Everywhere he looked the reporters were shouting and stealing pictures. The bassist was both blind and deaf in the midst of the flashes and screams.

Security had quickly divided the press into two sections, parting them across the room. Brian and the three Beatles sprinted through the tight gap and out into the hallway.

"John!" That was George's worried voice. Paul couldn't take any of this in. He hadn't time to think before Brian spoke.

"Quickly," the manager breathed, as he started off down a corridor, "this way. Hurry!"

Their boots clapped like gunfire down the hall. They called out repeatedly but to no avail. It seemed like a maze, with John lost in the centre. Suddenly, Ringo spotted a janitor mopping up just to the side. He almost skidded to a stop.

"Have you seen a man come down here?" The drummer asked. He measured with his hands. "About this tall, light hair,"

The cleaner, a stringy wire of a man, nodded his head slowly. "I think I did see someone like that come down 'ere. He seemed in quite a bad way; cryin', mumblin'... He looked like he was 'eadin' to the toilet just on the left there."

"Thank you," Ringo murmured, his eyes wide with worry.

He and the other men stopped at the first wooden door they came to on the left. They huddled behind it anxiously.

"Johnny?" Paul called out. He heard a quiet sniff. He tried again. Then, he grabbed the handle and rattled it back and fourth; the door wouldn't budge. "It's locked," he told the others.

Brian knocked on the door in an authoritative manner, but his voice betrayed his bravery. "Open the door, John." He said. He had a bead of sweat trickling down his furrowed forehead like the first droplet of rain on a window.

"They're gonna dope me up, aren't they? They're gonna lock me away. I hit one of them, I nearly hit him!" A thick voice drifted quietly from the other side of the wood. Then, a sigh.

"No they aren't, John. Just let us in and we'll go straight home, you won't even see them." Bargained Paul, pressing his cheek up against the door.

A small moment of silence followed. It was almost deafening.

"What about you, Paul, are you gonna lock me up. You sendin' me back to the hospital? Were they right? Do I need to be on tablets?"

The bassist bit his lip.

"Just come on out, John. Please."

And once again there came no answer.

Paul felt a sudden pulse of frustration bite him. "Don't you think we're all scared, John?" His hazel eyes burned holes into the door. "You were the one rushing back into things; you're not well, and yet you decided to do this. It was rather foolish of you."

"Paul," Ringo gently touched the younger man on the shoulder. His blue eyes were shaded with a chiding sadness. "Don't take it out on 'im. 'E can't help it." George nodded silently in agreement.

An inward sigh shuddered through Paul violently. What the fuck had happened? When had things gone wrong? Why had they to begin with? They didn't deserve any of this, and shouting at the broken man locked away behind a fucking bathroom door wasn't going to do any of them any favours.

He knocked, "Open the door," let his dark head of hair fall against the wood wearily. "Let us in, John, we can help you. You don't have to do this alone."

"I'm a fuckin' freak," came a sob.

"...You're a beautiful freak," said Paul. He cringed internally at the thought of the others hearing him say that; they'd think he was a poof. "You ain't normal, John, far from it... but... none of us really are."

_Click._

The door opened and Paul almost fell into John's arms. Two dark, bloodshot eyes stared back into a pair of sad hazel. A mop of auburn hair hung low on a strong face, but the face itself quivered with tears.

"Johnny..." Paul breathed.

When the rhythm guitarist threw himself into the bassist's chest, Paul hadn't any air in his lungs to gasp.

"Fix me, Paulie," John begged, "this is hell."

* * *

><p>The car came to a stop. Eight pairs of worried eyes peered out of the window like scared children. The driver came round to the side door and opened it with a tug.<p>

"Guess we better get goin' then, before anybody spots us," Paul sighed, stepping out of the black vehicle. John shortly followed him. Then, Brian turned.

"Maybe it's best if you lads stay in the car," he told George and Ringo, "just so you don't all get swamped by fans."

The musicians nodded, the onyx window rolled up, and their nervous faces slipped away. Brian, John, and Paul made their way into into the hospital.

Within a few minutes they had found themselves at the front desk. A young blonde, who Paul found quite attractive and would have turned on his flirtatious charm to her any other time than now, sat behind the reception with a pen in her hand and a phone cradled in between her shoulder and her neck. Her eyes flickered up to the men and, with a smile, she quickly ended the phone conversation.

"How may I help you, gentlemen?"

Her sunny demeanour didn't help Brian's grim attitude. "Is it possible that we may speak to Doctor Robert?" He looked at John, "It's a matter of urgency involving Mr Lennon here."

Her brown eyes studied the papers at her desk. "Well, he may be tending to a patient at a moment but if you wait over there," she pointed to a bevy of chairs in the far corner of the room, "I'll make sure he sees you promptly."

"Thank you,"

The three men shuffled over to the seats and, with hunched backs and haunted faces, they waited.

The silence between them was broken by John's small voice. "Why are we here?"

Two worried glances were exchanged before Paul spoke, "You aren't well, John..."

Something snapped and a dam of tears flooded once again out of John's eyes. He buried his face in his hands. "I'm goin' mad; it's all over for us, ain't it?"

With a hand rubbing circles on the rhythm guitarist's back, Paul ignored the confused stares thrown at him from other people passing by. "It ain't over, it's just... we need to find a way to control your condition. You'll get better soon."

"With what? They gonna give me a bloody lobotomy or somethin'?"

"No, no," Brian hushed, "nothing as dramatic as that, John. Everything will turn out fine."

Before they knew it, they had lapsed into silence again, save for John's muffled weeping. Paul wanted to hug him ever so much but he didn't dare do it in public, especially while sitting in the middle of a hospital.

About fifteen minutes later, footsteps hurried beside them.

"Hello, John, Paul, Mr Epstein. I apologise for the wait; I've been busy with patients. Follow me to my office." The doctor had a slightly breathless voice.

As they walked to the Doctor's office, John slipped his hand into Paul's suddenly, kept his eyes low, and padded along. Paul gasped lightly but kept his grasp. He almost smiled. Then, they arrived at a door.

Inside the office was a large, mahogany desk pushed quite far away. It had a tall velvet lined chair sitting behind it and two chairs in front. There was a window behind the desk as well, revealing a cold, grey afternoon and a blanketed sky. The beige carpet whispered underneath their shoes as they entered.

"Please," Doctor Robert smiled, "have a seat."

Brian and John sat down at the two chairs while Paul stood on the other side of the rhythm guitarist with a comforting hand on his back, nestling lightly.

With a slight groan from the chair, the doctor sat opposite them. "Now what seems to be the problem?" He said. John watched carefully as he took out a pen from his breast pocket and a pad of paper from the side of the desk.

Brian tried to explain but he couldn't quite get his words out. Paul remained silent.

"Why don't you tell me, John," instructed the doctor.

John blinked his dark eyes and stared down at the paper in the doctor's hands.

"Everything,"

Doctor Robert motioned him to elaborate. He didn't write anything down.

"Everything's a problem. I'm loosin' me mind. I can't remember things, then I can. I'm havin' trouble dressing me'self, I can't think. I nearly hit someone; I'm going insane."

There. He started to scribble. Paul's lofty voice drifted in from beside him.

"'E locked himself in the toilet, Doc, wouldn't come out. Panicking a lot, aren't you John? Gets phrases all mixed up... sometimes 'e forget things that only 'appened not long ago." Paul's gentle hand moved to the nape of John's neck and massaged softly.

The doctor made a noise in his throat. He looked up at the three men with clinical eyes. "These things tend to happen with brain injuries. Memory loss is quite common, as is anxiety and the feeling of hopelessness. However," he looked down at his notes briefly, "there isn't really anything we can do-"

"What? You must be jokin'!" Paul gaped. A bloody hospital couldn't fix his friend's head?

"It's unfortunate, but it can't be done. Your fine motor skills are corrupted but the only long-term cure for that is physical therapy. Your memory will become more reliable over time with training and educational exercises... I _can_ do something about your anxiety though, John."

The rhythm guitarist sighed. "I'd give you everythin' I've got for a little peace of mind, Doc."

He turned. John hadn't noticed but there was a large, clear cabinet to the left of the room. In its shelves were dozens of bottles, all shapes and sizes, all different colours and pigments. John watched in awe as he took out his key and unlocked the cabinet, selecting a white bottle and handing it back to the rhythm guitarist.

"What's this?" He asked.

"Phenelzine," Doctor Robert replied, "it's a mild anti-depressant also used to treat anxiety disorders."

John tensed like a spring. It had come true. He was on meds now. They _had_ been right. Maybe he was going crazy.

Paul's fingers grazed the bottom of John's hair and caressed deeper. He could feel the older man squirm when the doctor presented him with the pills.

"One a day should do the trick, and if nothing changes come straight back here." And with that, Doctor Robert pushed out his chair and held the door for them with a smile that was completely inappropriate for their current situation. They filed out and the door shut behind them.

* * *

><p>The house was quiet.<p>

It had been an hour since Brian had left. Everyone went off to do their own thing; George probably strumming away at his guitar in his room; Ringo was outside smoking; Paul and John were in the living room together.

"These fuckin' pills aren't workin'," John complained.

"It's only been half an hour since you took them, you stupid git," said Paul lightly. His demeanour had certainly softened since watching John weep like that. It was something the man didn't do often. It made Paul's heart sink whenever he saw John in that state; he was far too beautiful to cry.

Now he had to take these fucking meds to make him happy. Paul didn't know what was worse.

"You held my hand," Paul mused aloud, "when we were walkin',"

He watched John lift his head from the couch and smirk a little. "Yeah," he rested a fist under his chin, "what about it?"

"Oh nothin'... it was nice."

John lowered his head back down on the couch cushions with a little sigh. Paul stood and threw a blanket over him.

"I'll tell you what mate you look bloody comfy there," he said.

John mumbled, it must have been the happy pills kicking in finally.

"It'd be better with you,"

Must have been.

_Right?_

* * *

><p><strong>(Greetings, readers! Thanks so much for checking out this chapter and I'm sorry for the wait; I've been very tired recently to write but here it is. So, tell me what you thought of this update by leaving me a review. It really means the world to me. Thanks again and I'll see you soon!)<strong>


	10. Lust, Like A Strong Grip

**(WARNING: This chapter is where things start to turn slightly more mature in the story. Plenty of sex references in this one.)**

* * *

><p>A swirling lasso of smoke circled lazily about the kitchen early in the morning as the drummer sucked on his first cigarette of the day. He unfolded the newspaper with his ringed fingers and, hesitantly, he squinted at the front page. Black and white bold stood out immediately:<p>

**_"BEATLE JOHN SUFFERS BREAKDOWN"_**

He sighed, "Bloody hell," and folded the paper away again. Grinding out the cherry of his cigarette, he took a swig of coffee and stood to toss the newspaper in the dustbin. "Where you belong," he muttered, when suddenly his eyes caught something on the counter top. Edging closer, he noticed that it was the same pad of paper Paul had been writing in from a few days earlier. He found himself flipping through the pages slowly.

Dates were written at the top of pages, a small passage or a few short words below.

_'Arrived home today, John seemed to slightly recall the furnishings, although he was mostly confused." _Ringo's brow furrowed as he carried on reading._ "Later regained memory._

_'John struggles to dress himself and make tea correctly. Tried to get him to play the guitar but to no avail. Brian visited. John broke down in my arms. Later woken up by John coming into the room with a gash in his palm. Brian rang and plans for a conference were made._

_'Still struggling to dress himself. John tried to attack reporter. Panicked and confused during conference. Fled from conference room shortly after and locked himself in the toilet. Doctor prescribed John anti-depressants. Homosexual advances?'_

Ringo's eyes widened. He read the last line twice to make sure they hadn't deceived him.

"Homosexual advances?" He whispered in a breezy voice, small with confusion. "What the bleedin' 'ell..."

The living room door creaking open made Ringo quickly shut the cover of the note pad and, in a particularly flustered manner, lean unnaturally against the counter top. George entered the sitting room sleepily and the drummer relaxed.

He greeted the younger man, "Mornin', lad, sleep well?"

George's bird-nest of wild hair bobbed up and down in response. He gave a yawn. "Yeah, alright. Why are you up so early?"

"I could ask the same to you. Coffee?"

"Sure," the guitarist replied, "but you didn't answer my question."

The drummer poured the pre-heated kettle water into a mug with the coffee granules already inside. He gave it a swirl and dropped a cube of sugar into the drink. Handing it to George, the drummer explained. "Haven't been sleepin' well lately... bet you can't guess why,"

"I know the feelin'; this whole situation is makin' me go a little mad me'self. And now 'e's on tablets, Ringo... just like the press said would 'appen. I can't help but worry."

Richard nodded. "Me too, George. I suppose it's for the best though; poor bloke couldn't even get out 'is own 'ead. He'll be on the mend soon I bet, we just gotta give it some time and be there for 'im."

George took a cautious sip from the hot drink. "I 'eard him crying last night."

"No... again?"

"Yeah," he said with a sad voice, "kept me awake half the night. I can't bear to 'ear him like that." A bony set of fingers combed through his dark locks. "Paul calmed him down around 2-ish."

"In the morning?"

"Yeah,"

"How did I sleep through it?" Ringo gaped. He really must have been tired.

"I don't know; he bloody shook the whole house with his blubberin'. You must 'ave been out like a light." Replied the guitarist, setting his mug on the counter. He patted himself down. "Got a spare ciggy?"

"Sure," Ringo gave a cigarette to George and lit it.

The drummer's mind still raced about what he had seen in Paul's note pad. Was John queer? If he was, it certainly wasn't a problem in Ringo's books; after all, Brian was gay and he was one of the most genuine men Richard had ever met, but it would still be a shock.

John Lennon, queer?

Why was Paul hiding this information? Surely John would want his closest friends to know of his new feelings. Could he only confide in the bassist? The thought made the drummer's heart sink. He eyed the lead guitarist puffing on his cigarette warily; should he tell George what he'd found? He opened his mouth.

"...George-"

Suddenly, the sitting room door swung like the wind had kicked it open. It gave a creak, and slowly a muddled-looking John crept through. Ringo shut his lips tight again.

"Hello," George greeted the rhythm guitarist with a half-hearted cheer in his voice, "what's the matter, John?" The drummer could practically hear the frown in the younger man's tone.

John replied with a sub-human-like grunt. His eyes drooped heavily when he passed by Ringo, he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and it left a scented trail behind him. George wrinkled his nose.

"Do you know if Paul's awake?" He asked. The question was directed to John but the youngest didn't receive an answer, not even the courtesy of noise. "Right. I'll go check then," he took one last puff of his ciggy and placed it in an ash tray before scampering up the stairs; it was now John and Ringo alone.

He can't be gay, can he? Ringo thought, surely he would have told me as well as Paul; I'm his friend.

A rustling sound alerted the drummer that John was now rummaging through the cupboards. He turned to find the rhythm guitarist with a white medication bottle clutched in his fist. The other hand struggled to open the lid with messy fingers.

"Let me do that for you, John-"

"I can do it me fuckin' self,"

Richard dropped his hands back down at his sides limply. He watched as John's face impatiently twisted into anger and suddenly the small bottle was hurled across the room with a frustrated scream.

Paul was definitely going to be awake now.

Ringo's eyes widened, "Calm down!" It felt like he was chiding a misbehaving child throwing a temper tantrum.

John yelled and yelled- half the things he said were meaningless slanders or gibberish or animalistic moans- and Ringo tried to silence him; it was far too early for another melt down. He grabbed John's wrists and pulled them to his chest, in the process of forcing the other man to stare straight into his pleading eyes.

"It's alright, John, everything's alright. You're fine. Just. Be. **Quiet**."

Ringo felt a small surge of importance flow through his veins like fire; he had never been able to speak to John like that before; he had never really made a connection.

The brown eyes rippling back into the blue were watery with tears that threatened to fall. He looks absolutely lost, Ringo thought. This wasn't the John he knew. This was... someone else.

"Do you want me to open it for you?" Ringo asked quietly.

John just nodded, and the drummer went to collect the pill bottle up from the carpet across the room. He could hear George and Paul's gentle murmuring from above. They must have been discussing the noise.

"Here we are," Ringo said softly, "watch me, eh John?" He pushed the lid and twisted, and it came off with a 'pop'. He repeated it a few more times until John muttered.

"Push... twist... I got it, Ringo,"

"Alright," He handed the bottle over to the rhythm guitarist and watched as he shook out a yellow pill and put it on his tongue, gulping down a swig from George's abandoned mug of coffee. He grimaced.

Richard slapped on a lopsided smile, "There you go," he patted John on the shoulder but pulled away when the other man flinched. "How are you feelin' this morning?"

Ringo didn't really need an answer to see that John was quite the opposite of any positive response he could give. Two beady eyes stared back and, although they were dark and rippling, they appeared empty. His hair held a slightly greasy sheen to it, limp and matted on a muddled head. He had a set of shaking hands and fingers, trembling digits that couldn't keep still so he shoved them into his dressing gown pockets like he was concealing a weapon. No, he really wasn't fine at all.

"Shit," he muttered, sitting himself down on the sofa in the living room. He sighed. "I just wanna be normal again, Rings."

'Were you ever normal to begin with?' The drummer thought. He didn't really know what to say. The knock on the front door saved him the trouble.

"Who could that be at this time?" He pondered aloud, making his way out of the living room and to the door. "Stay here," he ordered John as he left.

Richard eyed the front door warily before pulling it open a crack. His worried, blue eyes met with Mal's cumbersome expression and his arms full of sacks.

"Mail," he explained shortly, handing the four bags haphazardly over to Ringo.

"Oh, won't you stay for a cuppa?" The drummer offered.

The road manager shook his head with a tight set of lips. "I have to dash; Brian is at 'is wits end and I 'ave to make sure he doesn't explode on us."

"I see... well goodbye then."

Then, Ringo shut the door and dumped the sacks at the bottom of the stairs in the hall. George's lanky frame all but tumbled down the steps.

"Who was that?" He asked.

"Mal," Ringo sighed, "We've got letters to read."

* * *

><p>They were all gathered on the carpet in the centre of the living room like children on Christmas day, except the usual festive joy you could feel like electricity through the air was missing.<p>

"Dear Ringo," the drummer read aloud, "I have a nose like yours but I am a girl. What should I do?" He frowned when George and Paul snickered quietly. "Go on then, Paul, let's 'ear one of yours."

The bassist cleared his throat. "My dearest Paul, I am madly in love with you. I have fainted for you six times." Ringo and George cooed in feminine voices and chortled to themselves while Paul fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to blush.

George spoke next, "George, I adore your accent; I could listen to you speak for hours." The guitarist grinned with his sharp fang-like teeth while Paul tried to imitate his voice and failed.

Then, silence fell like night when all eyes settled on John staring at one of his post cards with half-lidded orbs of dull brown. His mouth was open slightly, his hair hung over his face like a curtain.

"John?" Paul was uneasy. "What's it say?"

The voice was low and quiet. It was just above a whisper.

"Johnny baby," said the rhythm guitarist with a chalky tone, "I think about you everyday. I'm a few years younger than you but I think of us together and I can't control myself. You're so very sexy..."

Ringo's eyebrows raised. "Well that's not so bad-"

"Below I have attached a photograph of myself, which I hope you will enjoy. Lustfully yours, your number one fan."

John said nothing then, just continued to stare at the card like his eyes were burning through the paper. Paul reached over and snatched the card from his hands and let his eyes run over the picture.

"Oh my God..." He breathed.

His nose wrinkled in disgust and he stormed into the kitchen and threw the letter into the dustbin. He caught a glimpse of John's angry face on the front cover of a newspaper amongst the other rubbish but in his anger he ignored it.

John was still in his position on the floor when Paul entered once again: slightly hunched and eyes down. He looked awfully tense as he sat cross-legged. His too-big dressing gown pooled around him like a sea of warmth. The guitarist and the drummer just stared at the bassist in confusion, but all three pairs of eyes flew to John when he uttered in a breezy voice.

"I need a shag..."

* * *

><p>They were dressed and ready at around 1 o'clock with nowhere to go.<p>

Paul tinkered on his bass like he was caressing a girl. With a bevy of fingers, he picked up his pencil and etched down some lyrics on the paper. His eyes slowly wandered over to Ringo's when he felt a stare burn through his side. The older man had his chin rested on his hand patiently.

"Wha'?" Paul asked.

Richard shrugged. "Nothin',"

Paul raised his eyebrows and then went back to scribble more words. However, he couldn't shake the odd feeling that Ringo was doing more than just innocently staring.

He looked up again. "What are you bloody lookin' at, Rings?"

"The notebook, Paul,"

"Huh? What about the notebook?"

It seemed for a moment Ringo hesitated internally. "I saw the note pad open on the counter this mornin', I 'ad a look,"

Paul squinted. "So?"

There it was again, the conflict inside his eyes. It was like he was arguing with himself.

"Is John gay?" He asked quietly.

The bassist widened his eyes. "Pardon?"

"You wrote... homosexual advances, Paul... Was John... coming onto you?"

Paul had to decide himself.

Maybe he was reading too into John's words. Maybe it was in fact the recent stress and the medication speaking for him. John wouldn't say that on his own accord. Of course not.

But why had he held his hand? Why was he so desperate to touch Paul? He did blush an awful lot when Paul had to sit on his lap in the car that one time...

It was ridiculous. John wasn't queer; Paul was just being silly.

"No," he said to the older man, "I don't know why I put that, Ringo. John likes his birds; you saw 'im earlier. 'E was gaggin' for a shag, he even said so 'imself."

The drummer nodded in understanding but frowned again. "What was that a picture of anyway?"

Paul almost grimaced at the memory. "Some lass- must have only been about 15 I'd say- topless. I don't know how it got past the post office like that."

"Oh God..." Ringo shook his head in dismay; that rarely ever happened. After a moment of pause, he spoke again. "Why was John cryin' last night?"

"'E said 'e wished none of this had ever 'appened," Paul answered sadly.

Silence fell once again, until the bounding sound of two pairs of footsteps pounded down the stairs. George and John entered the sitting room.

"Fancy going out somewhere, lads?" Proposed the rhythm guitarist.

"Where to?" Said Ringo.

"Well I got an invitation to this fashion show thing for tonight, could be a laugh I suppose."

Paul and Ringo exchanged glances. "How about it, John? What do you think?"

John nodded. "As long as we're anywhere but 'ere, I'm happy."

* * *

><p>The dark hall carried a potent smell of expensive cologne, a sweet daisy-scented perfume that tickled the senses provocatively. The room was cool and clean, rows of benches one after the other below a catwalk illuminated by white and blue lights angled each side. The four men in their suits arrived a little later than most but were still seated at the very front because of their notoriety.<p>

After a few minutes of chatter, the remaining lights dimmed and the music began to play. It was the first woman walking out onto the stage that caught his attention.

Her legs seemed never-ending, long and thick, and toned. He licked his lips hungrily. Two petite breasts danced under a cherry garment, hidden. He could practically feel the lust radiating off his skin.

She disappeared back into the black curtain, and another woman returned. Her dark hair moved as her hips swayed in the melody. Two piercing eyes called out to him. He could feel himself longing for a taste. Then, she evaporated back into the shadows.

He looked around himself; the dark-haired man beside him watched attentively. The lighter-haired man with his blue eyes look slightly disinterested. The youngest had his gaze fixed on the floor.

When he heard the clip-clop of a pair of heels clack across the catwalk, his head shot back to the stage. She was a bronze beauty wearing a flowing lilac gown. When she turned, the man could see her assets accentuated perfectly in the light. He couldn't control himself.

He stood, all eyes were on him.

"Would you _look_ at the tits on her!" He shrieked.

Paul's face dropped in utter embarrassment and he stood with John and quickly murmured threats in his ear. He thoroughly apologised to the audience and the fuming model onstage, while he dragged the rhythm guitarist out of the hall like pulling a child away from a sweet store.

His face was red, his footsteps loud and angry on the tiles. When he found a store closet, he threw open the door and tugged John inside, then locked the door with the latch. They were trapped in there: the older man cornered next to the bleach bottles and the mop bucket with sad eyes.

"What the _fuck_ was that, John!?" Paul screeched. He wasn't holding back any longer. "Are you fucking insane! Do you like humiliating yourself?" Paul ranted and raved, blue in the face expressing his rage. His hazel eyes bulged out of his skull as he yelled.

John fiddled with the material on his trousers. He was still as tense as a spring. "I've got the worst fuckin' case of blue balls you ever did see, Macca, alright? I'm in desperate need of a fuck."

"That does not give you the right to talk to that woman like that! You must understand that there is a line we aren't supposed to cross, and you've gone straight past it. How do you think the public are gonna react now? They've already seen you try to punch up the press."

John's face fell slightly. "They... saw that?"

"It's in the bloody newspaper, John."

His dark eyes pooled into two black holes of sudden sadness. His crotch ached as well as his heart. He looked at Paul with those dark, hungry orbs and bit his lip.

Good thing the door was locked.

* * *

><p><strong>(Oh my goodness, it's been a long time hasn't it? I'm so sorry this took so long but I made it an extra long chapter for you all.<strong>

**The letters Ringo, Paul, and George read are actually extracts from real letters sent by fans.**

**So, what did you think of this tense chapter? What is John planning to do with Paul? Only time will tell.**

**Reviews are my oxygen.)**


	11. The Cars

"John? Are you even listening to me!?"

The rhythm guitarist looked at the bassist with hungry eyes. He felt his crotch pulse and couldn't hold back the urge any longer: he pounced.

They were pressed against each other. Paul had been crushed against the closet wall, squeaking out a yelp of surprise. When John had pushed harder against him, he fell silent.

His voice shook: a whisper over John's husky breaths, "W-What are you doing?" Then his eyes widened when John inched his face forward closer.

His dark orbs were watery with lust and pain. "Just... don't move, will you Paulie," he said as he rubbed the bassist's chest with a coarse hand through his shirt. He felt Paul tense under his touch.

Paul couldn't even catch a breath before John had pinned his lips down on his own. The older man's tongue tried to breach past Paul's mouth in a violent snog, but McCartney pushed him away.

"Get the fuck off!"

John ventured back just as swift, this time rubbing his groin against Paul's thigh like a dog in heat. His hands raced through the bassist's dark locks. Another kiss made Paul grunt back angrily and try to escape but to no avail. Finally, the kiss was broken and before Paul could call out, he felt John's mouth suck at his neck as another hand danced along the inner side of his thigh and dangerously close to his cock.

John licked and nibbled and chewed on the side of Paul's neck like it was his last meal. A particularly violent suck made Paul wince.

The bassist scrambled closer to the door but John had him pushed against the wall with all his might. Each attempt Paul made to break free, the more hasty John got with his mouth and his exploring hands. A venomous tongue suckled Paul's ear and the bassist's eyes rolled back into his head slightly in euphoric fashion, though he still fought to get away.

To his surprise- and horror- he heard himself moan when John cupped his package with a tender hand.

"Stop, John, please-" he begged, only the have John growl angrily at him, thrusting him harder against the wall. Paul felt waves of pain shudder up and down his spine.

"You're mine," the older man said firmly, much to Paul's confusion.

Another round of hasty kisses flew by, and John's bone-like fingers traced along the zip to Paul's trousers. The bassist almost yelled.

"Get off me, John." He tried to keep his voice steady, but to no avail. His hazel eyes bulged when he felt John's semi-erection pressed against his thigh and his fingers start to tug down Paul's zipper. The rhythm guitarist had one hand on the bassist's fly and the other pushed against the younger man's chest, keeping him there. John's eyes glinted with lust.

Suddenly, John groped greedily and Paul shoved him off, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"I said get off me, you fuckin' _queer_!"

John panted like an animal, his body was now backed up into the corner of the janitors closet. Each man was suddenly very aware of the small space keeping them apart: each had a haggard look in in their eyes as they stared. John looked ashamed.

There was a cold silence between them, save for the rhythm guitarist's laboured breaths. The aftermath of Paul's outburst still felt like it was rattling around the room they stood in. Paul adjusted his ruffled hair and his slightly scuffled clothes accordingly and edged over to the exit. He took one quiet glance at John and opened the door.

"I'm going to call a car to pick you up,"

Then, he let the door slam as he left John alone.

... ... ...

The car pulled up outside the building. It had a long hood with a dainty ornament protruding proudly off the end. The black paint glimmered in the dim lights shining from the club behind him as he walked down the steps with two burly men flanking either side of him. Paul also followed. George and Ringo stood at the top of the steps watching.

As another man opened one of the back doors, John cast a look back at his two band mates further away. They both wore faces twisted with worry. Then, his dark eyes lapped up the harder expression of the man who had opened the car door for him, standing just an inch to his right. He had two beady blue eyes and a short buzz of blonde hair gracing his head. His firm line of a mouth jittered as he spoke.

"Get in, Mr Lennon," he looked over to Paul talking to another man for a moment, "we're taking you home."

"Aren't the rest of the lads coming?" John asked with a cocked eyebrow.

"Mr McCartney and your other friends will be joining you later. Now, if you would please have a seat, we shouldn't be too long, sir."

John paused for a short moment and stepped into the car. As he sat, he watched Paul break off his conversation with the chauffeur and then step back. His sad hazel eyes drilled into John's darker brown. The door was shut and the engine roared to life. After a moment, the car began to pull away. John watched Paul until he became a smaller speck in the darkness and he was gone.

As the world spun by outside the window, the rhythm guitarist rested his head wearily against the glass. He couldn't believe how much of an idiot he was. Trying to get it on with Paul like that: his best friend: his _straight_ best friend. It was ridiculous. No doubt the bassist would tell the others and have him locked away for it. Maybe Brian would understand...

John wasn't queer, right? John loved women. He loved their bodies... their... their...

Was that the only thing he liked about women?

He was a rock star. He was John fucking Lennon. He could get any woman he wanted. Why was he lusting after another bloke? Why was he lusting after _Paul_?

"I'm losing me mind..." He whispered to himself and shut his eyes.

"Is everything alright back there, sir?" Said the chauffeur suddenly, breaking John out of his doze.

"Fuckin' dandy," the rhythm guitarist mumbled back in reply. He raised his voice a little. "What was Paul sayin' to you?"

The chauffeur, John noticed, blinked back into the rear view mirror and cocked an eyebrow at the other man like he didn't know what he was talking about. "I beg your pardon?"

"You were talkin' to Paul; what did he say to you?"

"He said to drop you back home... He asked me to keep an eye on you also, in case you needed anything."

John rolled his eyes. "More like he wants you to baby sit me so I don't hurt me'self. I'm a grown fuckin' man, you know."

"I know, Mr Lennon, but it's Mr McCartney's orders-"

"Oh? And Mr fuckin' McCartney thinks 'e can just _order_ me about does 'e?" John still had the pent up lust flowing through his veins like fire in his system; he was shaking with anger like a tense spring. "We'll see about that."

As they slowed to a stop in front of some traffic lights, John ripped open the car door and bolted from the seat like an animal being released from captivity. He narrowly avoided a man on a bicycle as he scrambled to get out of the road and onto the pavement. He looked back quickly at the stunned driver honking the horn and trying to pull over so he could collect the fleeing musician, but before he even had the chance to chance gear John was gone.

His mop top flew behind him as he ran. This was liberating, he admitted. He had missed exploring out in the night like this; he hadn't had the chance since he'd become famous. The wind whistled in his ears as he skidded down an alleyway but soon came to a stop.

There, at the bottom of the the alley, two bright, glowing lights waited for him. The beam from them blinded him and his face turned into a squint, lifting a hand up to shield his eyes from the lamps. Slowly, the aggressive rev of an engine growled like a rabid dog as the wheels of the car edged forward. John let his mouth fall agape.

It was _him_.

It was the driver, out to get John, the same sleek, black car, out to kill him, to run him down like he did the first time. It was him, and John couldn't mistake it for anyone else.

Once again, the car stopped. It was almost like it was taunting the rhythm guitarist, but yet John didn't have the sense to run away or move. His wide, brown eyes never left the two headlights staring him down, burning through his soul.

"What do you want with me!?" John yelled. He removed his hand from his forehead acting as a visor to shield his vision and placed them down by his side. "What do you want!?"

The engine moaned low and angry in response. It crept closer once again. The horn screamed at him, so he screamed back twice as loud and just as hysterical.

"Why do you want me dead, huh! I've done nothin' to you."

The vehicle halted. John was panting so much he almost didn't hear another car creep up from behind and roll its tires onto the cobbled paving of the alley. He turned with eyes as big as saucers.

Both of the cars we closer now, both of the booming engines deafening him. After a minute of pause, John heard the gritty shifting of dust being thrown behind the cars and the wheels screeching as they shot forward at the rhythm guitarist, who managed to duck into another smaller alleyway to his right where the vehicles couldn't fit, and were both left watching after him, honking their horns in defeat.

... ... ...

He heard the light "tap" of the man's head against the window. His two grey eyes looked back at John Lennon through the mirror and he called out when the man mumbled something under his breath.

"Is everything alright back there, sir?" Then he saw the musician's lids pop open and the haunting orbs burn back into his sullenly.

"Fuckin' dandy. What was Paul sayin' to you?" Mr Lennon asked in a cold voice.

The chauffeur raised his eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

John snarled his lips a little. "You were talkin' to Paul; what did he say to you?"

The driver's fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter, as if to steady himself from the impending wrath John Lennon would release on him. "He said to drop you back home... He asked me to keep an eye on you also, in case you needed anything."

The other man rolled his eyes at that. "More like he wants you to baby sit me so I don't hurt me'self. I'm a grown fuckin' man, you know." Then, he turned his head back to the window.

Before he could Stop himself, the chauffeur spoke again. "I know, Mr Lennon, but it's Mr McCartney's orders-"

John's wild eyes snapped back to look at him. They burnt with a manic fire he had never seen before. "Oh? And Mr fuckin' McCartney thinks 'e can just _order_ me about does 'e? We'll see about that."

The chauffeur new he had put his foot in his mouth and remained silent until they reached some traffic lights and rolled to a stop. He was just about to offer going to get something to eat, when he saw the musician throw open the car door and zip out, dodging a cyclist like a cat in the middle of a busy motorway. He yelled out, "John, stop!" but he was certain the rhythm guitarist couldn't hear him. Even if he did, the driver thought, he wouldn't have stopped anyway.

After the lights had changed back so he could move on, the man quickly pulled over to the side of the road and ran to a telephone box with lightning heels and shaking fingers.

There was only one person he thought of to call.

... ... ...

They were after him. They were trying to murder him. He had to get out of here.

But where could he go? The club was so far away, and it would take too long to get back to the house without them finding him and killing him in the process. Unless he made it back to the chauffeur, there was no way John would make it anywhere alive.

Suddenly, as he rounded another corner, he heard a gasp. His brown eyes met a pair of shocked hazel and suddenly he approached with arms outstretched. The figure hugged him back over-enthusiastically and squealed. John smelt the lingering scent of women's perfume.

"Paul?" He mumbled into the shoulder holding him tight with a confused tone.

Finally the person released him and John found himself staring back at a grinning, young lady with a long set of brown curls dancing in the breeze. She looked to be in euphoria.

"Is Paul with you!?" She yelped, "What about George? Or Ringo!"

John blinked in surprise. "You aren't Paul," he spat.

She sighed. "Oh, I wish, but at least I got a hug from my favourite Beatle," she went back for another embrace and John tried to push her away. "Wait 'till I tell my friends about this!"

"Where's Paulie," it came out as a confused mumble, like John was speaking to himself rather than asking the question to the woman. Suddenly it was all a blur, and all the rhythm guitarist could remember was kissing someone and something about a fashion show. "I... I can't 'member,"

The woman's hazel eyes pooled with concern and understanding for a moment. "Oh that's right: you have all that amnesia from the car crash. Maybe we should call the police to find Paul."

"Car... crash... I was in a crash?" John's eyes squinted in disbelief and partly from straining his sight in the darkness to look at the girl.

She nodded. "Or, at least, you were knocked down by one. A car, that is."

"A car," he breathed, hearing the screech of tires and the angry head lamps chasing him. He watched her face grow worried.

"Are you feeling alright, John? You look a bit mad,"

The horn of the car was carried through the wind and muffled by his screams.

... ... ...

"He _what_!?"

"He took off, Mr McCartney. He opened the door and he ran. I couldn't go after him because I was still in traffic. I'm terribly sorry-"

"Sorry doesn't cut it; he's out there on 'is own and he's got fuckin' brain damage. He doesn't 'ardly know what he's doin'. Knowin' John he's probably halfway to Birmingham by now... bloody 'ell." The chauffeur heard Paul sigh down the phone and speak again. "We'll 'ave to send out a search party, call the Old Bill to be on the lookout too. We 'ave to find John."

The driver twisted his face in scepticism. "The police? Are you sure they'll appeal to look for him in such short notice?"

"We're The Beatles; they have to listen to us."

The man heard a 'click' as the receiver was put down on the other end.

... ... ...

It all happened so fast. Rita Winters was coming back from her job at the restaurant only down the street when she turned into an alley to cut off a few minutes from her journey and bumped into John Lennon. He gave her a hug out of nowhere and he reeked of cigarettes and his clothes were cold to the touch but she didn't mind: she was hugging a Beatle.

Then, after a few distant honks of a car horn, he turned back to her and screamed his heart out. She could feel his strong hands grip her shoulders too tightly, almost to the point where it hurt, and shake her back and fourth saying that someone was trying to kill him.

She remembered reading a newspaper article about him.

**'BEATLE JOHN SUFFERS BREAKDOWN'**

Maybe it was all true. Maybe John Lennon was a madman; maybe the horns were from white vans going to take him away to be locked up somewhere; maybe she could get a reward for bringing him in.

Rita, despite being throttled by a panic-stricken Beatle, smiled to herself. She gripped the strap of her purse in a fist and swung the bag with all her might and hit John Lennon square in the jaw. He tumbled to the ground, utterly perplexed.

The rain began to pour as he stared up at her with scared, brown eyes.

"Help! Help! I have John Lennon here, come quickly!" She yelled out to the darkness. The raindrops felt like knives against John's skin as he began to scoot himself back along the floor and try to scramble away, but she hit him on the head again, this time twice as hard.

John felt a bevy of black dots explode in front of his eyes, the rain howling in his face. The woman continued to shriek out about the Beatle being injured and mad and lost but, when she turned to whack him again, John's hand caught the bag in mid-swing and he tugged her down with him, landing hard on the cobblestones with a thud and a groan.

The rhythm guitarist clambered unlawfully onto her torso and straddled her, bringing back a hand and whipping her around the face. She yelped from the blow and John slapped her again. In the darkness, John could see a steady stem of blood trickle down her nose, and, when he hit her again, he managed to get some of it on his crisp shirt soaking through with crimson and rain.

"Get off me! Somebody help!"

John huffed, "No one's gonna hear ya, sweetheart," and hit her again. He brought his lips close to her ear and bit down harshly, licking her neck with a pointed tongue. The rhythm guitarist suddenly caught his hands moving up to her breasts in the heat of the moment but he stopped himself with a shudder, and clambered off quickly.

"Oh my God," he whispered, looking down at the woman with a busted lip and a bleeding nose. He saw the rouge splatters on his wet shirt and blood running through his fingers like the rain itself. "I'm so sorry," he lifted her upper body and used his lap as a cushion for her to lean on while he wept. "What have I done!?"

She looked up at him through the rain and moaned. "It's alright... I-I'm fine. I'm sorry for hitting you too." She gasped when John leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips.

"Come with us, Mr Lennon,"

The musician's head whipped up to the voice speaking above him. It was a policeman, and behind him was a shopping wet Paul looking horrified. The bassist approached John and lifted him up by his arms, holding him tightly and embracing him.

"Don't you ever fucking run away again," he hissed and buried his head into John's damp collar bone.

The policeman knelt over the lady and helped her to her feet. She said, "I was mugged and this man here scared off the attacker and stayed by my side." She looked at John with earnest and guilt. "I'd like to thank him properly." Paul let John break off the hug and she wrapped her arms around his waist and whispered in his ear. "I forgive you," then, she was escorted through the alley by the policeman as Paul led John back to the car.

They climbed inside, the same chauffeur as before looking back at them with sad eyes. "Good to see you back, Mr Lennon." Then, they began the drive back to the house. John was shivering.

Paul watched him with anger in his hazel orbs, as wide and doe as the woman's. "What the fuck is wrong with you, John Winston Lennon." His plump lips reared back into a growl. "You've disobeyed me too many times. I'm not letting you leave my, George's, or Ringo's sight, you understand. You can't keep doing this. Look at you: you're soaked right through to the skin, and... you're covered in blood." His tone softened slightly at the last word.

John's heavy eyes were glued to his shoes. "They were after me,"

"Who was after you?"

"The... cars. They were tryin' to knock me down, like before, they were tryin' to kill me."

Paul exchanged a glance with the chauffeur.

"Those were delivery vans, John."

"What?"

Paul shuffled closer to his friend. "That's how we found you; we were askin' all the people we came across to see if they'd seen you and we asked these two van drivers and they said you were just standin' in the middle of the drive screamin' at them. Then, you ran off. They were delivering apples, John." He gently touched John's shoulder in worry. "There were no cars."

John Lennon watched Paul's doe eyes darken in sadness. "It wasn't real? Nothin' is real?"

Paul shook his head. "Did you take your pill this morning?"

John nodded. Paul kissed his cheek gently, in a brotherly way.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

... ... ...

**(Hello, long time, no update. How was this chapter? Good? Bad?**

**Also, just to clarify, the hallucinations and psychosis John experienced in this chapter are real symptoms of a traumatic brain injury and they do occur in most cases. Just thought I'd tell you so you wouldn't be confused.**

**So, yeah! What did you think? Please, please, please leave me a review telling me. I appreciate every single comment I get. I love you all and thank you for taking the time to read this. See you soon!)**


	12. Hypothermia

Paul sighed. He looked over at the rhythm guitarist in the living room from where he stood in the kitchen and poured the rest of the Bourbon into the small glass. Finally, sipping some hesitantly, he made his way back into the comfortable but quiet sitting room, groaning as he sat himself on a chair opposite John on the sofa.

"We were worried sick about you," Paul started, breaking the silence. John continued to stare out into the dark street outside the window. His eyes appeared foggy and swollen from crying. "Ringo was off 'is bloody 'ead; he was going to call Brian but I stopped 'im... we have enough troubles on our plate, we don't need to be addin' more by gettin' him involved."

Paul took another gulp of the whiskey and set it down on the small coffee table in front of him. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. After a moment of quiet, Paul peered over his fingers at John. "What were you doin' with that bird, anyway?"

"What bird?"

"Don't be soft," the bassist crooned, squinting his eyes slightly in frustration, "you know exactly which lass I'm talkin' about: the one you were hoverin' over in the middle of the bloody street."

John finally steered the direction of his eyes over to the bassist. He had a mouth like a firm line and it drew back into a snarl when he spoke. "She told you what happened,"

"You've got blood all over you-"

"I don't wanna talk about it!" John snapped, his booming voice flooding though every crevice in the house. The rhythm guitarist's scowl soon melted into a deep grimace. He fiddled with his crimson stained fingers like a child. His stringy, auburn hair, still slightly damp from the rain, hung low over his dark eyes like a curtain. "It's been a long fucking day, Paul." He murmured, "I don't wanna talk about it." His tone dripped with sadness. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a wash."

Then, the rhythm guitarist got up and left the room. Paul couldn't hold in the sob that shook through his chest like a rattling thunder, crying into his glass of whiskey.

... ... ...

The water filled the empty bath tub quickly. The wind and the rain from outside the window howled like an animal. He got up from the side and closed it as it sent a cold chill coursing through the small bathroom like the blood through his veins. John's fingers trembled as he unbuttoned his shirt and slid off his trousers and underwear.

The water, he noticed as he stepped into the tub, was as cold as a bitter January morning. It sent shivers up and down his spine and goosebumps spreading like wildfire on his skin. Yet, he ignored the feeling of his blood turning icy and sat back into the water.

John looked up at the bathroom ceiling with hazy eyes. The rain threw itself against the window like it was trying to break in and get at him.

'Like the cars,' he thought.

He was an intelligent man. Paul was simply lying to him; John may have been brain damaged but he was certainly not delusional. It was all a scheme, that's what it was, to get him to surrender his position as Top Beatle.

He nodded to himself. That was it. It was all one, big plot to try and drive him mad: but John Lennon wasn't blind. If they thought they could get rid of him that easily, they had another thing coming.

John mumbled to himself as his eyelids drooped and he sunk deeper into the freezing water.

... ... ...

"Brian, I'm _telling_ you, he isn't right," Ringo hissed into the phone, "he ran off on his own, like a bloody caged dog." He twisted the phone cable nervously in his fingers. "...Well I don't know what else we can do... yeah... He's already on bloody anti-depressants, Eppy, it's already come to that... admit him?... to a what?... a hospital?" The drummer's concerned, blue orbs widened considerably. "I don't know if 'e's that bad, Bri... yes, I 'ave read the paper's... well who would you rather believe the word of? Me or some bloody half-witted journalist?"

Richard carried the phone over to his bedroom door and peered out into the hallway. "Well right now, Eppy, I'm not even 'sposed to be on the phone to ye'... Paul told me not to call but I felt like I had to: John is our responsibility too, not just his... well alrigh', Brian, I've gotta go... yes, I know... okay... take care now, I'll see you soon... You too, bye." Ringo sighed as he put the receiver back onto the cradle.

What the fuck had happened?

The drummer carried his weary body over to the bed and started unlacing his shoes, kicking them off into the corner of the room and laying on top of the sheets with his arms behind his head and his ankles resting over each other. His mind swam but he was far too tired to think right now. So he closed his blue eyes, and sunk further and further into the mattress below him like it was quicksand, welcoming the warm, comforting grip sleep had on him all of a sudden. Ringo was at the mercy of unconsciousness, teetering on the edge of slumber and lucidity. That's why it was so difficult to fight his way out of the haze when he heard the distinct sound of a hollow voice and banging.

"What the..." He mumbled heavily, peeling open his orbs and blinking away the sleep. He scrubbed a hand down his face and sat up suddenly when he heard clearer.

"John... You alright in there? Speak to me."

It was George.

Ringo threw himself out of bed and scrambled over to the bathroom door, where the lead guitarist shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. He knocked again tentatively, noticing the drummer join his side.

"Where's Paul?" Richard murmured to George. The younger man shrugged and knocked again.

"Open up, John, you've been in there for a while, mate." His thick Scouse accent shook through the air. Silence met the two men standing at the bathroom door and George turned to the drummer anxiously. "I'm gonna get Paul," he said quietly and hurried down the stairs.

When the lead guitarist sauntered into the living room, he found Paul idly plucking his bass and staring at the carpet with a dull look in his eye.

"Paul?"

No response.

"Oh fuckin' hell not you too," he muttered and stepped closer. His feet hit against something as he walked and he looked down to see the bottle of Bourbon that was supposed to be kept in the kitchen cupboard: empty. He looked up. "Are you drunk?"

Paul, it seemed, had only just noticed George in the room. He gave a breezy smile. "G-Georgie," he slurred, dropping the bass guitar onto the carpet haphazardly as he reached out his arms in a hugging motion. George stayed in his spot a few inches away. "Come on, _kid_, give ya' brother a hug."

The lead guitarist sighed. "John's locked himself in the bathroom... _again_."

Something appeared to click in the bassist's mind- though it took a few delayed seconds to process- and he heaved himself up from the sofa, then promptly stumbled back down again. His eyes widened.

"Wow, I'm fuckin' hammered,"

Suddenly, Ringo's distressed voice carried down the stairs and into the living room.

"John! Fuckin' answer me!"

George hadn't heard him so panicked since the very day John was ran over. He glanced at the stumbling bassist once more but raced up the stairs without waiting for him; he was only going to slow George down and John could be in danger.

When the youngest arrived at the top of the stairs, he saw Ringo hammer his fist hard on the door and George thought it would fly off the hinges by sheer force. The drummer stepped back.

"What are you doing?" George asked with a voice bordering on hysteria.

Ringo's blue eyes scared George: they looked manic.

"I'm gonna break it down." He shuddered, and charged at the door. He lifted his foot out quickly, high enough to reach the handle, and kicked powerfully. The door crashed open and the drummer tumbled in, George behind him.

John looked dead.

His skin held a blue tinge, so pale it looked fresh from the grave. His lips were thin and azure, same with the tips of his ears, fingers, and toes. He was naked and unmoving in the bath tub.

Ringo had to bite his tongue so he didn't scream: he drew blood.

At the speed of light, the drummer had the scarily feeble-looking John Lennon in his arms and was heaving him out of the tub with a hasty gentleness. George could do nothing but stare and begin to cry.

"Stay with me, Johnny, I've got you," Ringo muttered. It was as though he was reassuring himself rather than the trembling man in his arms, suddenly awake but not saying a word. The drummer smoothed his wet hair and quickly wrapped a towel around him, clutching him. He looked deep into the dark, unblinking eyes of the rhythm guitarist, so deep he thought he would drown himself. "I've got you, John. You're safe and sound."

George couldn't stop the tears from falling, standing at the busted door and quaking with fear. He heard clumsy footsteps behind him traipsing up the stairs. Paul.

The bassist appeared in the doorway and let out a cry. He skidded past George and next to John on the floor. The silent man was shivering violently, porcelain skin still pallid and a frightening alabaster colour.

Ringo's deep voice spoke again. His arms were still wrapped around John's shoulders gently. "We need to get him somewhere warm; get some hot fluid into him. He's freezin' to the touch."

Paul nestled John's face with a shaking hand, lips parted in sorrow. He trailed his fingers down the rhythm guitarist's cheeks but received no reaction. John was staring at Ringo like his life depended on it. Paul felt an unreasonable pang of envy strike him but he ignored it quickly and nodded, helping the sopping wet Ringo pull John up from the floor and guide him into his bedroom.

The auburn-haired man stumbled ungracefully, clutching tight to the drummer and leaning on Paul for support. Every now and again he would mumble something indistinguishable.

'_It must be from the cold_,' Ringo thought, '_poor bloke is shakin' like a leaf._'

When they finally made it to the bed, Richard and Paul set down the rhythm guitarist on the sheets and tucked him under the cover. His blue lips juttered out when Ringo went to leave the room for a minute.

"N-No... s-stay, Rhino... stay..." He reached out a quivering hand.

Ringo exchanged a sad glance with Paul, who was oddly silent. Was John regressing? Rhino? They'd come so far. The drummer ambled over to the bed and wrapped his ringed fingers softly around John's.

"I'm gonna get you a cup of tea, love. I'll be right back. Paul is here, right next to you, he'll look after you." Richard smiled. He made his voice low and calm like he was talking to a little kid; it certainty felt like he was.

"P... Paul?"

Ringo pointed over to the bassist. "Here he is: he's right here to watch over ye', John. I'll be two ticks." The eldest quickly scampered down the stairs, leaving John and Paul alone. George had disappeared somewhere, probably to weep by himself. Someone would have to talk to him later.

John stared up at the ceiling. Paul, the weight of the alcohol pushing down on his emotions, sobbed suddenly. John's brown eyes never moved.

The bassist leaned closer to the bed. "I'm so sorry, John. This is all my fault: all of it. If I had just made you come inside, you never would have been hit by that... that..." He couldn't bear to say the word. It sound dirty all of a sudden. "If I had just let you kiss me, maybe you wouldn't have run off, if I hadn't shouted, maybe you wouldn't have done this to yourself." He pressed John's cold hand against his chin and, weeping into it, he said. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault."

John listened intently, a painful lump swelling in his throat and tears forming in his eyes. He didn't dare speak; he wasn't ready.

"The fuckin' pills aren't doin' much either," Paul sighed. He was right: John felt even lower than he had before he started taking the medication. It was as if the only things they were doing were making him more absent-minded. It was like John was on a different planet entirely sometimes.

Paul touched John's face again, "If I had just let you kiss me..." Then, clumsily leaning over the older man, he pressed his lips against John's.

It felt _odd_.

The bassist broke off the one-way kiss and looked over at the open door with worry. He began to breathe in laboured fashion as he clambered over John's naked, trembling form under the sheets and rolled onto the bed beside him. Shuffling under the quilt, Paul wrapped his arms around the rhythm guitarist's waist and clutched gently but firmly.

His whiskey-stained breath made John silently grimace. "I love you, John. I'll n-never leave you again."

Why was John ignoring him?

When he felt the rhythm guitarist shiver violently beneath his touch, he crawled in tighter and gingerly rested his head against John's bare collarbone and they both stared up at the eggshell ceiling like they were watching stars. He planted another kiss on John's neck but it felt too foreign and unnatural.

"Paulie," John whispered. The bassist looked up from his awkward position, half-hugging John's chest like a cat clawing up a tree. "Do you like me?"

Paul frowned. "Of course-"

"Do you want me out of the band?" The older of the two men asked coarsely. His voice wobbled with cold.

"No, John! Why would you ask such a thing? You're me best mate." Paul slurred.

"The Quarrymen," John sounded on the verge of tears, "won't be able go anywhere with me like this; we'll never make it."

Paul didn't say anything after that.

... ... ...

**(Hello! I'm back again, here to bring you another chapter. How did you find it? Good? Bad? Poor Johnny: I love being mean. It does break my heart, though. A review might fix it! If not for me, do it for poor old Johnny, will you? I really appreciate every single comment I get.**

**If you ever want to chat or collaborate or send me a request, drop me a PM! Thank so much for reading. I'll see you soon.**

**Love, omgringo.)**


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